UC-NRLF 


B    3 


I 


THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF 
ST.  M£DARD 


BY 

GRACE  KING 


NEW  YORK 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 

1916 


COPYRIGHT,  1916, 

BY 

HENRY  HOLT  AND  COMPANY 
Published  August,  1916 


Co 

The  Memory  of  my  Brother 
BRANCH  MILLER  KING 


343128 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

INTRODUCTION 3 

A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY  .       .       .       .  1 1 

MADEMOISELLE  MIMI 47 

PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE 77 

WALKING  THE  RAINBOW 106 

"  IT  WAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY  "  .       .       .126 

TOMMY  COOK 145 

THE  INSTITUT  MIMI 157 

CRIBICHE 172 

JERRY 182 

THE  SAN  ANTONIOS 202 

A  BAD  PART  OF  THE  ROAD 224 

MADEMOISELLE  CORALIE 246 

THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  MEDARD 267 

THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR       .....  281 

AT  THE  VILLA  BELLA 316 

THE  TURNING  OF  THE  ROAD 332 


THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.MEDARD 


INTRODUCTION 

Do  you  remember,  you  who  can  remember  as  much 
as  fifty  years  ago,  when  your  ears  hardly  reached  above 
the  dinner  table,  the  stories  your  elders  used  to  tell  over 
the  wine  and  nuts? — stories  about  their  time  and  their 
people,  their  youth  and  their  doings;  their  ten,  twenty, 
forty  years  ago.  What  stupendous  elders  they  were! 
Truly  to  the  opened  eyes  of  the  children  looking  up 
to  them  they  were,  indeed,  as  mountains  walking  or 
talking.  And  what  stupendous  tales  they  told  of  those 
dim  prehistoric  ages  before  our  birth!  What  great 
things  they  had  done  in  hunting  and  fishing,  riding,  and 
electioneering — aye,  in  fighting  too;  with  the  Indians, 
with  the  British  in  1812,  with  the  Mexicans,  with  the 
Spaniards,  when  they  went  filibustering  to  Cuba — even 
in  the  Revolutionary  War,  and  with  Napoleon,  or  escap 
ing  from  the  insurrection  of  the  negroes  in  San  Domingo. 
For  what  they  did  not  of  themselves  achieve,  their 
fathers  and  grandfathers  achieved,  and  it  all  seemed 
the  same  to  them  in  their  stories,  as  it  did  to  their 
listeners. 

Ah,  what  fathers  and  grandfathers  they  had,  and  what 
wonderful  men  and  women  they  had  known!  The 
children  who  listened  then  have  never  met  the  like  of 
them  in  their  long  life  since.  Yet  Heaven  knows  how 
patiently  they  have  looked  for  them,  and  how  gladly 
they  would  have  welcomed  the  sight  of  them. 

3 


4         THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

What  a  pleasant  world  that  was,  to  be  sure,  into  which 
we  were  born  fifty  years  ago  in  New  Orleans;  what  a 
natural,  what  a  simple  world!  Then  there  was  but  one 
truth,  one  right,  that  of  Papa,  than  whom  alone  the 
Father  in  Heaven  above  was  greater  but  hardly  more 
feared.  That  tall,  dignified  gentleman  to  whom  his  wife 
said  "  Sir,"  and  his  servants  "  Master,"  whose  frown  was 
a  terror  to  his  children,  and  his  caress  an  awesome  favor ; 
who  descended  every  morning  from  his  silent  apart 
ment,  as  from  a  cloud,  to  breakfast  in  majesty  alone;  to 
whom  there  was  but  one  easy  means  of  approach,  one 
sure  intermediary,  Mama,  whose  sweet  nature  and 
angelic  presence  so  enfolded  him  that  the  sharp  blade  of 
his  temper  was  as  safely  sheathed  in  it,  as  his  flashing 
sword  in  his  ebony  walking  stick.  She  was  so  pale  and 
delicate-looking  in  her  ruffles  and  laces,  with  her  mys 
terious  retirements  to  her  apartment,  through  whose 
hushed  and  dimmed  atmosphere  (wherein  the  furniture 
took  vast  and  strange  proportions)  the  frightened 
children  at  stated  intervals  were  pushed  and  jerked  by 
whispering  nurses  to  the  great  lace-curtained  bed,  and 
made  to  kiss  some  baby  or  other,  some  loathesome,  red, 
little  baby.  It  was  brought  there,  we  knew,  by  that 
hideous,  wrinkled  purveyor  of  babies,  old  Madame 
Bonnet,  who  had  a  wart  covered  with  long  hairs  on  her 
chin,  and  whose  only  tooth  stuck  out  from  her  upper 
gum;  the  very  image  of  the  evil  fairy,  pictured  in  the 
Magasin  des  Enfants,  the  nursery  authority  then  on 
fairies.  Children  would  as  soon  have  touched  the  devil 
as  her,  or  her  covered  basket  under  the  foot  of  the  bed, 
in  which  she  had  brought  the  baby.  And  so,  after  the 
Mama  had  given  them  some  dragees  from  the  glass  bowl 


INTRODUCTION  5 

on  the  table  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  they  would  creep  out 
of  the  room,  shrinking  as  far  as  possible  from  the 
nefarious  figure  sitting  in  her  low  squat  chair. 

And  do  you  remember  how  those  great  Papas  of  ours 
went  to  war?  And  how  God  did  not  act  towards  them 
as  they  would  have  acted  towards  Him,  had  they  been 
God  and  He  a  Southern  gentleman?  And  how  they 
came  back  from  the  war — those  that  did  come  back,  alas ! 
— so  thin,  dirty,  ragged,  poor,  unlike  any  Papas  that 
respectable  children  had  ever  seen  before?  If  they  had 
strutted  in  buskins  of  yore,  as  they  had  been  accused 
of  doing  by  their  enemies,  rest  assured  they  footed  it 
now  in  bare  soles.  And  do  you  remember  what  fol 
lowed?  Families  uprooted  from  their  past  and  dragged 
from  country  to  city,  and  from  city  to  country,  in  the 
attempt  to  find  a  foothold  in  the  rushing  tide  of  ruin 
sweeping  over  their  land.  Outlawed  fathers,  traveling 
off  to  Egypt,  Mexico,  South  America,  in  search  of  a 
living  for  wife  and  children,  even  into  the  enemy's  own 
country.  Some  of  them,  with  dazzling  audacity,  chang 
ing  to  the  politics  (or  principles,  as  politics  were  then 
called)  of  the  conquerors,  for  the  chance  of  sharing  in 
their  own  spoliation.  And  these,  in  memory,  seemed 
always  to  have  traveled  the  farthest  from  us.  Some 
fathers  of  families,  however,  did  nothing  more  ad 
venturous  than  to  submit  to  the  will  of  God  and  His 
conditions  (assuming  Him  to  have  been  their  judge  and 
the  arbiter  in  the  war)  ;  these  merely  changed  their  way 
of  living  to  the  new  conditions,  retiring  with  their  families 
to  the  outskirts  of  the  city,  where  houses  were  cheap, 
living  simple,  and  the  disturbing  temptations  of  society 
out  of  the  question. 


6         THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

These  were  the  ones,  in  truth,  who  had  the  most 
adventures  afterwards  in  the  quest  for  fortune.  A  living 
was  a  fortune  then,  setting  themselves  to  work  in  the 
primitive  fashion  of  their  forefathers,  when  they  faced 
a  new  country  and  new  conditions.  But  in  the  wilds  of 
a  virgin  forest  and  surrounded  by  savage  Indians  these 
had  advantages  that  their  descendants  learned  to  envy. 

The  fighting  the  Papas  had  done  in  war  was  nothing 
to  the  fighting  they  did  afterwards,  for  bread  and  meat; 
and  the  bitterness  of  their  defeat  there  was  sweetness 
compared  to  the  bitterness  that  came  afterwards. 
Bayonet  in  hand  was  easier  to  them  than  hat 
in  hand. 

And  the  delicate  luxurious  Mamas,  who  had  been  so 
given  to  the  world,  reading  and  weeping  over  fictional 
misfortunes — there  were  some  of  them  who  lived  to  weep 
for  the  security  of  food  and  shelter,  once  possessed  by 
their  slaves. 

Saddest  of  all  these  memories,  and  not  the  least  to 
be  wondered  at,  the  man  who  once  had  the  most  friends 
was  the  one  who  in  need  found  the  fewest.  The  old 
friends  to  whom  we  used  to  listen  over  the  dinner  table, 
who  told  such  fine  tales  of  adventure,  courage,  gallantry, 
wit,  that  we  placed  them  in  our  hearts  second  only  to 
our  Papa  and  third  after  God,  do  you  remember — but 
who  does  not  remember? — how  in  the  struggle  for  life 
that  followed  the  tempest  of  ruin  they  yielded  to  the  tide 
of  self-interest,  veering  and  swaying  from  their  anchor 
age,  often  indeed  cutting  loose  and  sailing  clear  out  of 
sight,  leaving  their  crippled  companions  behind  to  shift 
for  themselves?  It  was  considered  lucky  when  the 
deserter  did  not  also  turn  betrayer  and  come  back  to 


INTRODUCTION  7 

act  the  pirate  upon  his  old  comrades.  Starvation  is  a 
great  dissolvent  of  friendship,  as  the  shipwrecked  have 
found  more  than  once. 

Poverty  is  a  land  to  which  no  one  goes  willingly, 
which  all  strive  instinctively  to  avoid.  There  seems 
to  be  no  rest  or  ease  in  it.  Who  goes  there  old  is 
buried  there.  The  young  spend  their  lives  trying  to 
get  out  of  it.  But  the  way  out  of  it  is  narrow  and 
steep,  like  the  path  to  Heaven.  It  almost  seems  to 
be  the  path  to  Heaven,  so  hard  is  the  struggle  to  get 
through  it.  It  is  white  with  the  bones  of  those  who  have 
died  in  it,  as  the  way  to  Jerusalem  was  once  with  the 
bones  of  the  Crusaders.  Some,  giving  up  the  struggle, 
settle  there,  marry,  and  have  children  there;  little  ones 
who  never  lose  the  mark  of  their  nativity.  The  trampling 
of  the  hard-footed  necessities  has  told  upon  them;  their 
hearts  are  furrowed  by  the  track  of  hopes  passing  into 
disappointments.  They  know  no  other  land  than 
poverty,  and  are  haunted  by  strange  misconceptions  of 
the  land  of  the  rich;  the  people  who  live  in  it  and  the 
people  who  get  to  it. 

Who  of  us,  who  now  inherit  want  as  surely  as  our 
fathers  did  wealth,  has  not  at  one  time  or  another  made 
a  pilgrimage  to  that  Gibraltar  of  memory,  the  home  of 
our  childhood,  of  our  Olympian  beginnings?  Leaving 
behind  us  the  sordid  little  rented  house  in  which  care 
and  anxiety  have  whitened  the  hair  and  wrinkled  the 
face,  we  have  threaded  the  streets  to  stand  on  the  side 
walk  opposite  some  grim,  gaunt,  battered  old  brick 
mansion,  filled  with  shops  below  and  a  mongrel  lot  of 
tenants  above,  trying  to  fit  our  past  into  or  upon  it. 
"  Is  that  the  balcony,"  we  ask  ourselves,  "  from  which 


8         THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

on  gala  days  we  used  to  look  upon  a  gala  world?  Did 
that  grim  story  hold  our  nursery,  where  of  mornings 
we  used  to  lie  and  watch  the  white  angels  pictured  on  the 
blue  tester  of  our  bed,  and  once  caught  them  in  the  act 
of  moving  their  wings?  Was  it  there,  when  we  woke 
suddenly  at  night,  that  the  awful  flickering  of  the  taper 
in  the  corner,  now  brightening,  now  darkening  the  room, 
frightened 'us,  opening  and  shutting,  opening  and  shut 
ting,  like  the  terrible  eye  of  God?  Is  that  the  doorway 
through  which  our  great  Past  made  its  entrance  and 
exit?  Is  that  the  court-yard  where  our  slaves  worked 
for  us?  That  the  building  in  which  they  were  born  to 
work  for  us?  No,  no!" 

To  you  who  have  not  made  that  pilgrimage,  I  say, 
do  not  attempt  it;  you  will  never  find  what  you  seek. 
Thread  the  way  to  it  only  in  memory,  if  you  would 
find  it.  And  yet,  ye  who  have  been  in  this  land  we  have 
described,  who  have  buried  some  of  your  old  ones  there, 
and  it  may  be  some  of  your  young  ones,  who  have  spent 
your  life  trying  to  get  out  of  it,  or  helping  others  dearer 
than  yourself  on  their  way  out  of  it,  what  think  you  of 
it,  after  all?  What  in  truth  found  you  there  in  default 
of  the  one  lack  that  sent  you  there?  Love,  hope,  courage, 
light  in  darkness,  strength  in  weakness,  fortitude  under 
injustice,  self-respect  in  the  face  of  indignity  and  humili 
ation — did  ye  not  find  them  growing  there,  growing 
naturally,  not  cultivated  artificially  as  they  are  of  neces 
sity  in  that  other  and  upper  land?  Was  less  truth  to 
be  met  there,  or  more  falsehood  from  others,  less  self- 
sacrifice,  less  wifely  devotion  or  family  loyalty,  than  in 
the  land  of  your  lost  inheritance  ?  Did  you  find  the  slim 
purse  less  charitable  than  the  fat  one,  the  heart  under 


INTRODUCTION  9 

the  shabby  cloth  less  sympathetic  than  the  one  under  the 
fine? 

And — but  there  is  no  use  to  ask  it — whatever  the  land 
of  poverty  lacks,  it  lacks  not  ideals;  the  beautiful  ones 
that,  as  Schiller  sings,  fly  from  us  one  by  one  with  our 
youthful  years,  leaving  us  at  last  to  fare  on  alone  with 
out  them  to  old  age.  They,  as  we  know,  wing  their  way 
more  fondly  down  than  up  the  narrow  path,  toward  the 
cradle  in  the  hovel,  rather  than  to  the  one  in  the  palace. 


THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY 

THE  Parish  of  St.  Medard  used  to  be  as  far  away  from 
Canal  Street,  the  center  of  life  in  New  Orleans,  as  a 
slow  moving  mule  could  drag  a  car  in  an  hour's  time. 
It  lay  in  the  "  faubourg  Creole  "  the  lower  suburb  of  the 
city,  the  extremity  that  stretched  down  the  Mississippi 
River.  As  cities  progress  upstream,  not  down,  the  other 
extremity  was,  ipso  facto,  as  one  may  say,  the  American 
quarter.  In  it  mules  and  cars  traveled  faster  and 
distances  were  shorter  than  in  the  faubourg  of  the 
descendants  of  the  old  French  and  Spanish  population. 
The  limit  of  St.  Medard,  in  truth  the  last  street  in  the 
city,  was  held  fixed  by  the  buildings  and  grounds  of  the 
United  States  barracks  whose  tall  fence  ran  in  a  straight 
line  from  the  river  to  the  end  of  the  cleared  land,  almost 
to  the  woods  in  the  distance,  barring  inflexibly  any 
advance  in  that  direction.  Beyond  the  barracks  stretched 
the  open  country;  the  rural  and  ecclesiastical  domain  of 
another  saint,  a  region  of  farms  and  plantations. 

On  a  bright  May  morning  of  1865,  tne  waiting  St. 
Medard  car  on  Canal  Street  was  taking  in  its  usual  tale 
of  passengers:  Gascon  gardeners  and  dairymen  going 
home  from  the  markets,  soldiers  on  their  way  to  the 
barracks,  Creole  residents  of  the  quarter,  and  gentry 

11 


12       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

belonging  to  the  plantations  along  the  river,  when  there 
entered  it,  comers,  new  to  the  driver  and  to  his  patrons; 
an  American  family,  father,  mother,  and  four  small 
children  followed  by  their  negro  servants,  a  man,  his 
wife,  and  their  three  half -grown  daughters  carrying 
baskets  and  bundles  innumerable,  the  awkward  bundles 
and  baskets  of  country  people.  Curious  enough  looking, 
doubtless,  they  were  to  the  eyes  observing  them  but  not 
unique  as  specimens  of  their  kind  at  that  date.  All 
over  the  city,  every  day,  other  cars  might  be  seen  receiving 
just  such  passengers  to  carry  from  one  home  to  another, 
from  one  condition  to  another,  nay,  from  one  life  to 
another,  ferrying  them  in  their  jog-trot  passages  in 
truth,  like  so  many  barks  of  Charon  from  a  past  to  a 
future. 

The  father,  a  tall,  thin,  erect,  scholarly-looking  man, 
singularly  handsome  of  face,  was  dressed  in  black  broad 
cloth  which,  with  his  clean-shaven  face,  betokened  at 
that  time  a  gentleman  of  the  profession.  His  wife,  fair 
of  hair  and  skin,  was  dressed  in  the  grotesque  and 
obsolete  fashion  of  a  half  dozen  years  before.  The 
children  wore  homespun  and  alligator  hide  shoes,  the 
little  girls,  sunbonnets,  the  boys,  or  at  least  one  of  them, 
a  palmetto  straw  hat,  the  other  one  was  bareheaded. 
The  negroes  in  their  clean,  coarse  plantation  clothes 
looked  dazed  and  stupid;  the  woman,  murmuring  to 
herself  all  the  time,  without  knowing  it :  "  My  God, 
my  God !  "  All  sat  stiff  and  rigid,  serious  and  half 
frightened. 

The  clouds  of  war  had  at  last  rolled  by  and  the  sun 
of  peace  was  shining  in  full  force  again,  but  the  city  was 
still  heavily  garrisoned;  companies  of  white  and  negro 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         13 

soldiers  in  bright  blue  uniforms  were  marching  through 
the  streets,  orderlies  with  papers  in  their  belts,  dashing 
by  on  horseback,  officers  glittering  with  golden  braid  and 
buttons  and  epaulettes,  strode  the  sidewalks,  dominating 
the  soberly  clad  civilians  in  a  manner  quite  out  of  propor 
tion  to  their  numbers,  bands  of  newly  freed  negroes, 
ragged  and  dirty,  the  marks  of  the  soil  still  upon  them, 
straggled  along,  leisurely  impeding  the  way  of  other 
pedestrians  as  they  gazed  about  them.  Confederate 
soldiers,  still  in  their  shabby  gray,  were  to  be  seen  every 
where;  gaunt,  gray,  hungry-looking  animals,  fiercely 
eying  the  smartly-dressed  soldiery  that  had  conquered 
them,  and  now  owned  their  city. 

The  sharp  eyes  of  the  children,  roving  restlessly  about 
and  springing  back  in  quick  rebound  from  the  sight  of 
the  soldiers,  seemed  to  see  nothing  that  pleased  them, 
that  is  nothing  they  were  accustomed  to.  Even  their 
Mama  was  as  strange  to  them  as  everything  else  in 
her  unnatural  costume.  They  might  well  ask  themselves, 
looking  askance  at  her,  if  she  were  the  same  Mama  they 
knew  on  the  plantation,  who  used  to  go  around  in  a 
homespun  dress  and  alligator  shoes;  the  dress  that  they 
had  watched  growing  as  cotton  in  the  fields,  and  had 
seen  spun,  woven,  and  dyed  by  their  own  negro  women ; 
the  shoes,  from  an  alligator  that  they  had  seen  swimming 
in  their  own  Bayou,  and  which  Jerry,  over  there,  had 
shot,  skinned,  and  tanned  the  hide  to  make  into  shoes. 
A  sunbonnet  then  covered  the  head  that  now  wore  the 
ugly  bonnet  trimmed  with  great  pink  roses  and  broad 
blue  ribbons.  And  yet,  how  often,  when  the  little  girls 
had  been  ill  and  restless  with  fever  on  the  plantation, 
had  their  Mama  taken  her  city  bonnet  as  she  called  it 


H       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

out  of  its  careful  wrappings  and  showed  it  to  them  as 
the  greatest  treat  possible.  It  seemed  beautiful  to  them 
then,  and  it  always  quieted  them  although  it  had  no 
effect  on  the  little  boys  and  when  she  related  to  them 
how  she  had  bought  it  at  Florette's  and  what  Florette 
had  said  and  what  Papa  had  said  about  it,  it  was  the 
most  interesting  story,  in  truth  she  could  tell  them. 
The  little  boys  never  would  listen  to  it  but  the  little  girls, 
even  with  the  fever  burning  in  their  veins,  could  have 
listened  forever  to  tales  about  Florette's  wonderful  shop 
and  the  beautiful  things  she  sold.  But  now  when  they 
were  on  the  very  Canal  Street  that  their  Mama  used 
to  talk  so  winningly  about,  when  their  car  was  standing 
just  in  front  of  Florette's  glamorous  shop,  they  did  not 
think  of  it  nor  did  their  Mama  remind  them  of  it !  When 
the  car  started,  children  and  servants  gave  a  portentous 
start  with  it.  The  plantation !  the  plantation !  the  fields ! 
the  woods!  the  negro  quarters!  the  sugar  house!  the 
stables!  the  blacksmith  shop!  the  corn  mill!  the  mules, 
cows,  chickens!  the  Bayou!  the  Bayou!  .  .  .  The  car 
seemed  to  wrench  their  hearts  from  it  all.  And  from 
the  steamboat,  too,  which  during  their  five  days'  journey, 
they  had  learned  to  love  and  now  regretted  as  pas 
sionately  as  the  plantation.  How  proud  they  were  to 
see  it  steaming  up  their  Bayou  and  stop  at  their  wharf ! 
The  greatest  and  grandest  thing  they  had  ever  seen, 
greater  and  grander  surely  than  anything  in  the  world. 
How  strange  and  small  they  felt  upon  it  at  first  and  oh ! 
how  curious  it  was  to  be  nosing  their  way  in  and  out 
of  bayous  and  lakes,  just  missing  a  snag  here  or  running 
into  a  bank  there  and  nearly  capsizing  in  a  wind  storm, 
one  day  in  the  middle  of  a  lake  when  the  captain  cursed 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         15 

so  loud  that  they  understood  why  the  crew  called  him 
Captain  Devil.  They  could  hear  him  and  the  mate  kick 
ing  and  cuffing  the  crew  above  the  noise  of  the  storm 
as  their  Mama  held  them  around  her  in  the  cabin.  The 
storm  began  by  blowing  off  Billy's  hat  and  he  had  been 
bareheaded  ever  since.  When  they  got  into  the  Missis 
sippi,  what  a  surprise  that  was !  A  hundred  times  larger 
it  was  than  their  own  Bayou,  the  biggest  stream,  they  had 
thought,  in  the  world.  And  what  great  plantations  on 
both  banks !  They  did  not  know  that  there  were  such  big 
plantations  in  the  world.  Their  own  plantation  had  been 
the  biggest  in  the  world  to  them  before.  It  shrank 
suddenly  to  a  sorrowfully  small  one,  as  small  as  their 
steamboat,  alongside  the  great  steamboats  at  the  city 
wharf.  They  were  almost  ashamed  of  the  Bayou  Belle 
then  and  they  whispered  to  one  another :  "  Oh !  I  wish 
she  were  bigger." 

The  father  paid  no  attention  to  soldiers,  negroes,  pas 
sengers,  or  anything  else,  so  absorbed  was  he  in  what 
he  was  telling  his  wife.  He  had  been  in  the  city  or 
according  to  the  expression  of  the  time,  back  from  the 
war,  two  weeks;  she  had  arrived  that  morning  from  a 
plantation,  so  remote  and  isolated  in  forest  and  swamp 
that  news  of  the  progress  of  the  war,  even,  came  to  it 
only  in  slow,  straggling,  roundabout  ways.  She  would 
not  have  known  that  it  was  over  if  her  husband  had  not 
hurried  to  her  from  his  camp  with  the  news.  Of  what 
had  happened  in  the  city,  of  the  home  she  had  left  there, 
she  had  heard  nothing,  since  she  had  left  it  to  its  fate 
at  the  hand  of  a  victorious  enemy. 

Her  husband  was  telling  her  a  strange  story  indeed, 
of  his  adventures  since  he  had  parted  from  her  on  the 


16       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MfeDARD 

plantation,  but  she  was  not  so  much  absorbed  in  it  as  he. 
Her  blue  eyes  showed  thoughts  behind  them  other  than 
the  ones  that  lighted  his  dark  eyes  with  heroic  fire,  and 
her  wan  delicate  features  grew  more  and  more  out  of 
harmony  with  the  full-blown,  pink  roses  of  the  over 
hanging  bonnet  brim.  Yet  she  could  from  time  to  time 
cast  a  look  and  smile  of  encouragement  to  her  children 
and  servants  and  at  some  call  of  youth  and  spirit,  raise 
her  long  fair  neck  as  proudly  as  if  it  bore  the  august 
head  of  her  husband  instead  of  her  own. 

A  skiff  here,  a  pirogue  there,  by  cart,  horse,  or  mule, 
on  foot  for  many  a  mile,  he  had  made  his  way  through 
a  country  given  over  to  lawlessness,  a  people  demoralized, 
swarming  freed  negroes,  an  insolent  soldiery,  ruin, 
wretchedness,  and  despair,  no  one  knowing  what  to  do 
or  where  to  begin  work  again  in  the  uncertainty  of  what 
the  victorious  government  intended  further  as  punish 
ment  for  the  defeated.  But  the  city !  The  anticipatory 
laugh  at  what  was  to  come  revealed  a  different  face  from 
the  one  that  wore  habitually  a  mask  of  stern  hauteur ;  a 
frank,  pleasant,  companionable  face.  His  wife  smiled 
in  anticipation  with  him.  "  Such  a  lot  of  ruined,  ragged, 
hungry  lawyers  and  ci-devant  fine  gentlemen!  Each  one 
trying  to  raise  a  little  money,  hunting  some  one  to 
lend  enough  to  pay  for  a  decent  suit  of  clothes,  a  night's 
lodging,  and  a  little  food;  and  all  being  dodged  or 
refused  by  the  smug  money-makers  among  the  old 
friends  who  had  shrewdly  stayed  at  home.  Every 
pocket  was  buttoned  up  at  the  sight  of  a  poor  Con 
federate;  and  every  day  new  arrivals  from  the  armies 
or  prisons,  all  about  naked  or  starving,  and  all  clamorous 
for  news  and  *  views '  of  the  situation,  and  every  man 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         17 

with  a  family  somewhere  to  bring  back.  As  I  was 
walking  along  the  street  disconsolately,  wondering  what 
I  should  do  next,  whom  should  I  meet  but  old  Doctor 
Jahn,  hobbling  around  just  as  he  used  to  on  his  gouty 
feet. 

"  '  Hello ! '  he  said,  '  you're  back,  are  you?  ' 

"  '  Yes/  I  said,  '  I'm  back/ 

"  '  Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  ' 

"  I  told  him,  first  of  all,  to  bring  my  family  from  the 
plantation,  find  a  home  for  them,  and  then  go  to  work 
to  make  a  living  and  educate  the  children;  that  as  far 
as  I  could  see,  we  were  ruined,  but  that  I  had  made  a 
fortune  once  out  of  my  profession  and  I  could  do  it 
again.  He  nodded,  smiled,  and  tapped  me  on  the  breast 
in  his  way :  '  The  first  thing  of  all,  my  dear  fellow,  is 
for  you  to  get  out  of  these  God-forsaken  clothes  and 
buy  yourself  a  Christian  appearance.  You  know  we 
are  great  on  our  Christianity  and  our  appearance  now/ 
So  he  pulled  me  along  by  my  arm,  to  a  desk  in  some 
office  and  wrote  me  a  check  for  a  hundred  dollars  and 
hurried  off. 

"  I  rushed  to  a  shop  before  any  one  could  borrow  of 
me  and  bought  these  clothes.  Egad!  I  was  actually 
ashamed  to  pay  for  them;  it  looked  suspicious  for  me 
to  have  so  much  money,  and  the  price,  twenty-five  dollars, 
seemed  tremendous.  Then  I  went  straight  to  the  levee 
and  hunted  up  our  old  friend,  Captain  Devlin.  For 
tunately,  he  was  just  in  with  his  boat.  I  gave  him  fifty 
dollars  and  told  him  to  go  and  fetch  you  all  here.  *  In 
old  times,'  he  said,  '  it  used  to  be  two  hundred  and 
fifty  dollars  and  a  sugar  crop  besides.' ' 

The  car  left  the  broad  street  with  handsome  houses 


1 8       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

behind  it  and  entered  a  different  district,  that  of  the 
class  that  works  for  a  living  and  lives  for  its  work; 
the  class  of  small  houses  and  large  families.  Block  after 
block  of  little  cottages,  hardly  higher  than  the  car  itself, 
was  passed ;  some  of  them  no  better  than  negro  cabins  on 
a  plantation.  Sometimes  there  would  be  a  garden  in 
front  or  at  the  side,  and  every  now  and  then  a  cottage 
of  brick  and  double-sized  would  be  passed,  protected 
from  its  surroundings  by  a  high  brick  wall  bristling  on 
the  top  with  broken  glass;  bananas,  pomegranates,  and 
crape  myrtles  stretching  up  above  it.  But  this  seemed  a 
crest  of  prosperity;  for  blocks  afterwards,  the  houses 
diminished  in  size  and  appearance,  until  a  very  hollow 
of  poverty  and  squalor  was  reached.  At  short  intervals, 
appeared  a  grocery,  a  drinking-shop,  a  bakery,  at  long 
ones,  the  church,  school,  or  convent.  On  the  low  wooden 
steps  of  the  little  cottages  sat  women,  sewing  or  nursing 
babies;  around  them  on  the  sidewalk  and  in  the  gutters 
played  their  innumerable  progenies  of  children,  ranging 
in  color,  from  the  fairest  skins,  through  all  gradations  of 
foreign  complexions.  The  car  went  still  slower  through 
this  quarter,  for  the  streets,  which  had  begun  so  hand 
some  and  broad  at  the  beginning  of  the  journey,  grew 
ever  narrower  and  more  crooked.  The  driver  was  kept 
busy  with  his  brakes  and  the  plodding  mule  strained 
painfully  over  the  accumulation  of  turns. 

The  husband,  however,  unconscious  of  street  or  gait, 
pursued  his  narrative: 

"  I  thought  it  was  then  time  to  go  to  my  office  and 
see  what  had  become  of  it.  I  knew  that  the  building  was 
still  standing  in  its  old  place  and  that  was  about  all  I 
had  been  able  to  find  out  about  it.  I  glanced  at  the  names 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         19 

in  the  doorway;  mine  was  no  longer  there.  I  marched 
upstairs.  On  my  old  door  was  a  fine,  bright,  new  sign. 
What  do  you  think  I  read  on  it  ?  '  Thomas  Cook, 
Attorney  and  Counselor-at-Law.' ' 

"  Tommy  Cook?    Little  Tommy  Cook?  " 

"  Tommy  Cook  and  no  other. 

"  I  opened  the  door  and  walked  in.  '  Well,  Tommy/  I 
said,  '  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  ' 

"  He  looked  up,  arose,  and  without  any  surprise  at 
seeing  me,  answered :  '  Taking  care  of  your  office  as  you 
told  me,  Sir/ 

"  I  looked  around.    *  How  did  you  manage  it  ?  ' 
'  I  found  a  way,  Sir.' 

"'You  did,  did  you?' 

"  '  I  stole  it,  Sir.' 

"  Well,  that  was  literally  what  he  did.  He  took  down 
my  name,  put  up  his  own.  Who  was  to  object,  in  all 
the  stealing  that  was  going  on?  And  egad!  he  has 
business  too." 

"Tommy  Cook!  The  little  lame  boy!  Who  used  to 
brush  your  shoes  and  run  your  errands,  and  carry  your 
law-books  to  court  for  you  ?  " 

"  Well,  he  carried  them  for  me  this  time,  famously." 

"  But  how  can  he  be  a  lawyer  without  studying  law?  " 

"  I  saw  his  license  framed,  hanging  on  the  wall. 
And  that  was  all  I  did  see  in  the  room  different  from 
the  day  I  left  it  in  his  charge.  The  books  were  all  there 
with  the  ledgers  and  papers  in  the  bookcases,  just  as 
I  left  them. 

'  T'was  the  only  way  to  save  them,  Sir,'  he  said,  '  to 
steal  them  myself.' 

"  I  sat  down  in  my  old  seat  and  he  stood,  as  he  used 


20       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MfiDARD 

to  do,  waiting  for  orders.  I  got  all  the  news  I  wanted 
out  of  him  and  there  is  nothing  on  foot  in  the  city  that 
he  does  not  know  all  about.  I  told  him  that  the  first 
thing  we  had  to  do  was  to  find  a  house  for  you  and  the 
children  ..." 

'  You  are  sure/'  she  said,  interrupting  him,  hesitating 
and  embarrassed,  a  flush  mounting  to  her  face :  "  You 
are  sure,  there  is  no  hope  still  for  our — our  home."  Her 
voice  faltered.  "I  .  .  ." 

He  interrupted  her.  "  Not  the  least  in  the  world.  As 
I  told  you  this  morning,  it  has  gone  with  the  rest." 

He  dismissed  the  subject,  curtly,  decisively,  as  he  had 
done  on  the  boat ;  but  there  was  no  dismissing  it  from  her 
thoughts.  She  had  not  forgotten  it  an  instant,  since  he 
had  announced  the  fact  to  her.  "  I  thought,  maybe,  that 
Tommy  ..." 

"  It  was  one  of  the  first  houses  seized  and  confiscated," 
he  interrupted  her  impatiently,  and  went  on  with  what 
he  was  saying :  "  We  looked  for  houses  until  I  was  tired 
out.  Of  course,  with  everybody  coming  back  and  want 
ing  houses,  no  one  I  can  tell  you  found  the  home  he  had 
left,  if  it  was  worth  anything,  for  rents  have  gone  up 
tremendously!  The  whole  city  seems  to  have  been 
bought  up  by  sharpers,  who  hold  us  in  their  hands,  and 
squeeze  us.  At  last  Tommy  found  the  place  we  are 
going  to,  for  sixty  dollars  a  month,  and  as  prices  go,  it 
is  a  bargain." 

She  looked  at  the  street  they  were  going  through.  "  I 
never  was  in  this  part  of  the  city  before,  in  my  life." 

"  Nor  I  either  until  I  came  to  look  at  the  house.  But 
we  will  find  living  cheap  there.  Tommy  went  all  over 
the  neighborhood;  outside  the  barracks  there  is  not  an 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         21 

American  family  in  it.  The  barracks  is  a  great  draw 
back,  but  that  is  the  reason  the  house  is  cheap ;  otherwise 
it  would  have  been  seventy-five  dollars  a  month  instead 
of  sixty.  It  is  worth  about  twenty.  But  the  soldiers 
are  troublesome  only  on  pay-day,  when  ladies  and 
children  have  to  keep  out  of  the  cars  and  off  the  street. 
I  had  a  time  getting  the  furniture ;  everybody  was  buying 
just  what  I  was;  beds,  tables,  chairs,  and  we  had  to 
pay  for  the  commonest  the  price  we  used  to  pay  for  the 
handsomest.  You  will  find  it  all  in  the  house,  with  a 
stove  and  some  groceries;  about  all  I  could  think  of. 
We  shall  have  to  live  economically,  and  educate  the 
children  .  .  ."  and  so  on  and  so  on. 

He  unfolded  the  map  of  the  future  before  her  in  the 
quiet  determination  of  manner  and  terse  language 
characteristic  of  him,  as  if  it  were  a  campaign  to  be 
fought  again.  She  let  her  mind  follow  his  with  her 
characteristic  docility,  embracing  his  views,  adopting  his 
conclusions,  conceding  that  the  great  future  was  his,  the 
husband's,  the  man's  affair;  the  little  future  of  daily  life, 
hers,  the  woman's,  according  to  the  traditions  of  con 
jugal  life  in  which  she  had  been  raised.  But  with  all  her 
acquiescence  of  heart  and  mind,  she  had  presentiments — 
they  were  all  she  ever  had  to  oppose  to  his  clear  reason 
ing.  Somewhat  like  her  freed  negro  servants  she  was 
not  sure  of  what  she  was  riding  into  and  she  could  have 
murmured  with  Milly :  "  My  God !  My  God ! "  without 
knowing  what  she  was  calling  on  Him  for. 

As  their  hearts  had  been  wrenched  from  the  plantation 
where  they  had  passed  their  lives,  so  was  her  heart 
wrenched  from  the  home  and  the  part  of  the  city  where 
she  had  passed  her  life,  the  only  home  she  had  ever 


22       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

known,  to  which,  for  four  long  years,  she  had  been 
hoping  to  return,  and  for  which  her  heart  was  now 
calling  out  with  passionate  longing. 

What  did  Peace  mean  to  her?  What  could  it  mean 
but  to  return  to  the  past  as  she  left  it?  The  past!  It 
had  gone  from  her  as  if  it  had  been  a  spoil  of  war.  And 
as  she  saw  it  in  her  woman's  way,  her  future,  too,  had 
been  taken  away  from  her  as  a  spoil  of  war.  She  be 
longed  to  a  period,  a  childhood,  when  parents  of  wealth 
secured  the  future  of  their  children,  as  they  called  it. 
She  was  born  into  a  secured  future,  so  was  her  husband, 
so  were  their  children.  All  of  a  sudden  she  was  bereft 
of  it.  It  had  disappeared  like  a  meteor  from  the  sky. 
The  prospect  she  had  been  looking  at  all  her  life  was 
changed ;  another  and  a  different  one  substituted.  It  was 
as  if — for  so  also  it  came  to  her  in  her  confused  imagina 
tion — as  if  her  husband,  the  man  to  whom  she  had  been 
married  for  twelve  years,  that  aristocratic  gentleman 
with  classic  features  and  noble  expression  of  countenance, 
should  be  divorced  at  a  stroke  from  her;  and  a  coarse, 
plain,  common  man  substituted  as  her  lord  and  master, 
the  father  of  her  children  .  .  .  and  she  had  been  no 
surer  of  her  husband  than  she  had  been  of  her  future. 

About  two-thirds  of  the  route  there  was  a  station  where 
passengers  were  transferred  to  an  older,  shabbier  car, 
a  stiffer  mule  and  a  rougher  track.  Three  uptown  cars 
were  the  regulated  portion  of  the  second  car,  and  there 
fore  it  never  started  until  well  filled.  Our  family,  being 
in  the  last  car  waited  for,  found  but  a  poor  accommoda 
tion  of  seats  at  their  disposition  and  had  to  wedge 
themselves  in  wherever  space  could  be  procured  by 
shoving.  An  old  gentleman  with  a  white  beard,  who 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         23 

looked  like  the  picture  of  General  Lee,  was  sitting  at  the 
end  of  the  seats;  he  reached  forward  and  lifted  one  of 
the  little  girls  and  placed  her  beside  him.  As  soon  as 
she  was  seated,  she  lifted  the  cover  of  a  little  basket  on 
her  arm  and  looking  into  it  with  a  bright  smile,  whis 
pered  :  "  Kitty,  Kitty." 

"What's  its  name?"  asked  the  old  gentleman  beside 
her. 

"  I  just  call  her  Kitty  now,  because  she's  a  kitten,  you 
know." 

"  But  what  will  you  call  her  when  she's  grown  up  ?  " 

"  Oh!  I  don't  know,  Kitty  still,  I  reckon." 

"  But  you  wouldn't  like  to  be  called  Baby,  after  you 
are  grown  up,  would  you  ?  " 

"  Oh !  Mama  calls  me  that  now,  most  of  the  time." 

"  Yes,  but  you  have  a  name." 

"  Oh,  yes !  My  name  is  Marian,  but  they  call  me  Polly, 
because  I  talk  so  much.  Even  Papa  calls  me  Polly. 
That's  Dickey,  I  mean  Richard,  over  there  and  that's 
Billy  with  his  hat  off.  His  name  is  William  and  he's  got 
a  dog  tied  to  that  string  in  his  hand.  Bob  is  his  name, 
because  he's  got  a  bob  tail.  Papa  told  Billy  not  to  bring 
Bob  with  him,  so  Billy  has  to  keep  him  hid  under  Milly's 
dress.  That's  Cicely,  leaning  against  Mama.  She  has 
chills  and  fever.  ..." 

Catching  her  mother's  eye  and  a  warning  shake  of 
the  head,  she  stopped  abruptly,  but  in  a  moment  after, 
peeping  at  her  basket  and  calling,  "  Kitty,"  she  began 
again ;  "  I  hate  the  city,  don't  you  hate  the  city  ?  I 
think  the  city's  so  funny,  don't  you?  Everything  looks 
funny  in  it.  Mama  looks  so  funny,  and  don't  Papa 
look  funny?  Billy  says  if  he  was  Papa,  he'd  be  ashamed 


24       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

to  go  about  in  them  clothes."  She  stopped  short, 
frightened,  and  gave  a  quick  look  at  her  father.  "  I 
mean  those  clothes,  I'm  glad  Papa  didn't  hear  that,  yes 
indeed,"  with  a  laugh.  "  He  promised  us  that  he  would 
punish  us  next  time  we  used  them  for  those,  like  niggers, 
I  mean  negroes;  and  the  next  time  Billy  said  it,  he 
punished  Billy.  Billy  don't  say  it  no  more  now  when 
Papa  can  hear  him.  And  he  makes  us  say  saw  instead  of 
seen.  I  think  it's  funny  to  say  saw  for  seen,  don't  you? 
But  we  don't  say  seen  any  more."  .  .  . 

Again  the  warning  shake  of  the  head  stopped  her 
for  a  moment. 

"  Them's  Yankees  over  there.  Ain't  you  glad  you 
ain't  a  Yankee?  They're  so  ugly,  ain't  they?  I  hate 
'em.  Don't  you  hate  Yankees?  Everybody  hates 
Yankees,  I  reckon,  except  Yankees.  We're  going  to  live 
right  by  the  Yankees,  and  Papa  told  us  this  mornin', 
before  he  took  us  off  the  boat,  that  he  didn't  want  to 
hear  no  more  such  talk  about  hatin'  Yankees  and  that 
we  mustn't  go  about  tellin'  people  how  we  hated  'em. 
That  ladies  and  gentlemen  didn't  talk  that  way,  and  that 
we  were  ladies  and  gentlemen  and  he  expected  us  to  be 
have  like  ladies  and  gentlemen.  But  Billy  says  he's 
goin'  to  kill  every  one  he  sees  when  he's  a  man  and  so 
is  Dickey 

"I  would  hate  to  be  a  Yankee  wouldn't  you?"  she 
resumed  when  her  mother  took  her  eye  from  her.  "  I 
wouldn't  be  one,  and  havin'  people  prayin'  for  me." 

"Praying  for  Yankees.  Who  prays  for  Yankees?" 
asked  the  old  gentlemen. 

"  Mama  makes  us  pray  for  'em  because  they're  our 
enemies  and  she  says  we  must  forgive  'em  too,  and 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         25 

anyhow,  the  more  we  hate  'em  the  more  we  must  pray 
for  'em.  Pshaw !  I'm  glad  I'm  not  an  enemy  to  have 
people  forgivin'  me.  Billy  says  he's  goin'  to  train  Bob  to 
bark  at  'em,"  and  she  laughed  gleefully.  "  I  would  like 
to  live  on  a  steamboat,  wouldn't  you  ?  But  you  ought  to 
hear  the  Captain  curse!  Billy  can  curse  just  like  him. 
Billy  says  he's  goin'  to  be  a  steamboat  captain  when 
he's  a  man.  But  Dickey  ain't.  Dickey's  goin'  back  to 
the  plantation  and  I'm  goin'  with  him.  It's  too  funny  in 
the  city.  Have  you  ever  been  on  the  Bayou  Belle?  I 
tell  you  we  had  a  bully,  I  mean  a  nice,  time  on  her."  .  .  . 

After  the  Station,  the  track  ran  over  a  rough  country 
road  with  a  deep  ditch  on  each  side,  crossed  by  ragged- 
looking  lanes.  On  the  left,  beyond  the  gardens,  dairies 
and  open  fields,  stretched  the  outline  of  the  forest  in  the 
distance.  To  the  right,  the  river  could  be  seen  by 
glimpses  between  the  great  groves  of  magnolia  trees  that 
surrounded  the  houses  facing  it.  An  exhilarating  breeze 
blew  fresh  and  strong  from  that  direction.  The  children 
craned  their  necks  to  look  at  the  Gascons  toiling  in  their 
gardens;  whole  families,  from  the  grandmother  in  her 
headkerchief,  to  little  children,  raking,  hoeing,  gathering 
vegetables  and  working  the  great  long  swinging  poles 
over  the  wells. 

Even  the  eyes  of  the  negro  servants  brightened  with 
intelligence  at  the  familiar  sight  of  it.  Billy,  who  had 
made  his  way  to  the  platform,  could  be  heard  excitedly 
imparting  his  sentiments  about  cows  and  gardening  to 
the  driver  who  seemed  to  welcome  any  distraction  of  his 
attention  from  the  hard,  dry,  belabored  back  of  his  mule 
— no  more  sensitive  to  the  whip  than  a  painted  wooden 
back  would  be. 


26       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

The  Gascons  slipped  off  one  by  one  as  the  car  went 
along.  The  negroes  left  in  a  body  at  a  path  that  led 
to  a  great  brick  ruin  of  a  building — "  the  Settlement " — 
they  called  it.  At  last,  long  after  patience  had  come  to 
an  end,  the  journey  came  to  its  end  also.  The  soldiers 
made  a  bolt  for  front  and  rear  door ;  the  other  passengers 
waiting  for  them  to  pass.  By  the  time  the  American 
family  were  out  of  the  car  with  their  baskets  and  bundles, 
the  driver  had  taken  his  dram  at  the  corner  barroom; 
for  this  flower  of  civilization  which  had  followed  the 
track  through  the  length  of  the  city  bloomed  here  also  at 
the  end  of  it. 

"  And  now,"  said  the  father  cheerily,  "  we  must  foot 
it  awhile."  The  sidewalk  consisted  of  a  plank  fastened 
upon  the  ground  along  which  the  party  could  advance 
only  in  single  file.  He  took  the  lead ;  wife,  children  and 
servants  tailing  after  him,  he  turning  his  head  and  call 
ing  out  to  them,  his  handsome  face  aglow  with  animation. 
He  was  never  so  animated  and  eager  and  never  looked 
so  handsome  as  when  leading  up  to  some  hard  pass, 
some  breach  of  disappointment.  The  plank  walk  ran  in 
front  of  a  row  of  new,  brightly  painted  little  cottages, 
set  so  closely  together  that  the  lounging  men  and  women 
on  the  steps  could  talk  to  one  another,  as  if  they  were 
seated  on  a  long  bench.  The  women  appeared  only  half 
dressed  in  their  loose  sacques  and  gowns  and  with  their 
hair  in  disorder.  The  men  were  soldiers,  but  they  seemed 
more  abashed  as  the  little  procession  passed  in  front 
of  them  than  the  women  did. 

Across  the  street  was  the  high  fence  inclosing  the 
barracks  grounds.  Soldiers  were  drilling  inside;  from 
the  noise,  the  place  seemed  filled  with  them.  Further 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         27 

on,  towards  the  river,  the  officers'  quarters  could  be  seen 
through  their  surrounding  groves  of  trees.  Over  it  all, 
above  trees  and  buildings,  above  everything  but  the  blue 
sky,  waved  the  United  States  flag. 

The  head  of  the  little  procession,  turning  sharply  to 
the  right,  strode  down  the  opening  that  served  for  a 
street.  Its  ruts  and  holes  had  been  baked  by  the  sun 
to  stony  hardness;  but  the  little  feet  stumbled  along 
over  it,  following  the  resolute  tread  in  front  without 
lagging  or  complaining.  Children  and  negroes  looked 
around  them  joyfully  for  they  were  in  the  country,  the 
dear  country  again.  The  low-lying  blue  heavens  over 
head,  flecked  with  white  clouds,  was  the  country  sky; 
the  bright,  hot  sun  was  the  country  sun  they  knew  so 
we^l.  The  weeds  growing  rank  and  wild  along  the  sides 
of  the  road,  the  droning  bees,  the  mosquito  hawks,  dart 
ing  hither  and  thither  among  the  leaves  and  flowers,  as 
well  as  the  breeze  that  blew  fitfully,  just  as  it  used  to  blow 
over  the  fields, — all  that  was  the  country,  not  the  city. 
The  sound  of  chickens,  geese  and  ducks,  the  smell  of 
manure;  what  a  glad  exchange  this  was  for  the  long 
ride  in  the  car! 

Again  they  were  wheeled  abruptly,  and  led  alongside 
an  old,  swaying  fence,  with  an  inside  hedge  of  wild 
orange  whose  branches  touched  the  heads  of  the  taller 
ones  among  them.  At  a  gate  in  this  fence,  stood  a  little 
bare-footed  boy,  who  at  sight  of  them,  darted  away, 
screaming  at  the  top  of  his  voice :  "  Madame  Joachim ! 
Madame  Joachim ! "  And  from  the  end  of  the  street 
at  once,  a  stout  woman  hurried  forward,  her  wide  blouse 
volante  of  calico,  flying  out  behind  her,  showing  her 
fat  feet  in  white  stockings  and  carpet  slippers.  Wide  as 


28        THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

the  blouse  volante  was,  it  fell  only  comfortably  over 
the  rotund  parts  of  her  body.  Her  well  oiled  curling 
black  hair,  drawn  back  tightly  from  her  swarthy  face, 
glistened  in  the  sun,  and  her  face,  as  far  as  it  could  be 
seen,  wore  a  smile.  She  carried  a  great  bunch  of  keys 
and  after  shaking  hands  all  around  selected  the  largest 
key — a  ponderous  iron  one — unlocked  the  gate,  threw 
it  open,  and  stood  aside  for  the  family  to  enter  their  new 
.home.  XThe  house  also  had  suffered  a  revolution  in 
fortune.  Its  paint  hung  upon  it  in  rags,  showing  the 
naked  wood  beneath.  The  gallery  was  hidden  by  the 
vines  that  hung  over  it  from  the  roof,  the  accumulated 
luxuriance  of  years;  parterres  and  paths  in  the  garden 
were  grown  together  in  a  tangle  of  vines  and  shrubs. 
Over  the  outside  of  the  rotting  cistern,  green  moss  fol 
lowed  the  line  of  trickling  water. 

Madame  Joachim,  in  spite  of  her  size,  lightly  mounted 
the  steps  of  the  gallery  ahead  of  the  newcomers,  and 
taking  another  monstrous  key,  unlocked  the  central  one 
of  a  row  of  green  batten  windows,  and  with  a  smaller 
key,  the  glass  door  inside;  and  again,  with  a  polite 
gesture,  motioned  the  family  to  enter  before  her. 

Without  a  word,  they  did  so  and  stood  in  the  dim 
interior  while  she  went  from  room  to  room  on  either 
side,  opening  the  glass  windows  and  heavy  green  shut 
ters.  The  clanging  of  the  heavy  iron  hooks  as  she  let 
them  drop  was  the  only  sound  heard  until  all  were  opened. 
The  bright  day  illuminated  a  room  at  the  back  and  two 
on  each  side.  In  each  stood  a  small  allotment  of 
furniture. 

"  This,"  said  Madame  Joachim,  waving  her  hand  with 
pride  to  the  glistening  whitewashed  walls  and  freshly 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         29 

black-painted  mantelpiece,  "  this,  as  you  see,  is  like  new; 
the  rest,"  with  a  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "  is  according 
to  nature." 

She  led  the  way  out  to  the  back  gallery.  Across  a 
large  yard,  shaded  with  a  fine  wild  cherry  tree,  stood  a 
long,  low  cabin;  the  kitchen  and  servants'  rooms.  The 
fence  here  was  lined  with  a  row  of  old  and  gnarled  fig 
trees.  "  St.  Medard,"  said  Madame  Joachim,  pointing 
to  a  small  steeple  that  dominated  the  sky  here,  as  the 
flag  did  in  front.  Descending  the  steps  and  crossing  the 
yard,  she  opened  the  doors  of  the  kitchen  building,  leav 
ing  each  key  carefully  in  its  keyhole  as  she  had  done  in 
the  house. 

The  little  group,  instead  of  following  her,  remained 
on  the  gallery,  silent  and  still;  the  husband,  forgetting 
to  be  animated,  the  wife  forgetting  to  look  at  his  face, 
the  children  imitating  her,  looking  ahead  of  them  at 
nothing.  The  clear  voice  of  a  mocking  bird  in  some 
near  tree  alone  broke  the  silence.  They  were  standing 
as  she  had  left  them  when  Madame,  returning  across  the 
yard,  reached  the  steps.  There,  springing  forward,  she 
exclaimed :  "  But  that  poor  child  has  a  chill !  " 

It  was  so.  Cicely,  the  sickly  one,  was  having  a  chill, 
her  chill  as  the  children  called  it.  She  and  every  one  else 
had  forgotten  it  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment,  but 
true  to  the  day  and  hour  as  it  had  been  for  three  months 
past,  it  had  not  forgotten  her.  The  child  was  clinching 
her  teeth  and  hands  tight  to  keep  them  from  shivering, 
but  her  poor  little  thin  face  was  ashen,  her  lips  blue  and 
trembling. 

Madame  Joachim  picked  her  up  like  a  baby  and  with 
her  soft  swift  walk  carried  her  to  the  nearest  bed, 


30       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

Cicely's  face  pressing  into  the  great  fat  breast  as  into 
a  soft  pillow.  When  she  was  laid  on  the  bed  it  was 
discovered  she  was  crying;  she  who  never  cried,  whom 
her  Papa  always  called  his  Marshal  Ney,  because  she  was 
the  bravest  of  the  brave.  The  little  family  clustered 
around  her  in  consternation;  most  of  them  feeling  like 
crying  too.  It  was  as  if  this  sorrow  and  disappointment 
were  all  of  a  sudden  too  much  to  bear.  And  whereas, 
on  the  plantation,  the  youngest  child  would  have  known 
what  to  do  for  a  chill,  now  they  stood  as  helpless  as  if 
they  had  never  seen  the  miserable  thing  before. 

It  was  Madame  Joachim  who  hunted  up  sheets  and 
spread  them  over  the  bare  mattress,  who  undressed  the 
child,  and  eased  a  pillow  under  her  head.  Then,  slipping 
to  the  back  gallery,  and  running  her  practised  eye  along 
the  fence  and  selecting  a  certain  hole,  she  called  out  in 
quick,  sharp  Creole  patois :  "  Cribiche,  my  son,  run  fast, 
get  some  orange  leaves  and  tell  Joachim  to  make  some 
tisane,  as  quick  as  he  can,  and  you  bring  it ;  Courri  vile, 
mo  di  toi" 

When  the  tisane  came,  she  gave  it  herself  to  Cicely, 
petting  and  comforting  her,  with  the  sweetest,  softest 
voice  in  the  world.  "  Never  mind,  never  mind,  bah ! 
What  is  a  chill!  Everybody  has  chills!  Now,  one  more 
cup,  eh !  There,  there,  see  how  good  it  tastes !  By  and 
by,  you  will  take  another  cup,  and  you  will  sweat,  and 
when  you  sweat,  you  know,  you  are  most  over  it,  and 
you  will  shut  your  eyes,  and  you  will  go  to  sleep,  and 
when  you  wake,  it  will  be  all  gone."  She  spoke  in  the 
soft  singsong  English  of  the  Creole  who  has  learned  the 
language  by  ear.  The  little  one  obediently  closed  her 
eyes,  and  listening  to  the  mocking  bird,  and  hearing  the 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         31 

cowbells  and  the  faint  droning  of  the  insects  outside,  fell 
into  the  delusion  that  she  was  again  on  the  plantation; 
delusions  are  the  saving  grace  of  chills. 

Madame  Joachim,  with  her  finger  on  her  lip,  stepped 
softly  out  of  the  room,  and,  as  she  never  forgot  anything, 
went  to  the  kitchen  to  see  what  was  needed  there.  Milly 
and  her  daughters,  having  kicked  off  shoes  and  stockings 
and  some  of  their  stupidity  with  them,  were  moving 
about  with  something  like  a  servant's  activity.  A  fire 
had  been  made  in  the  new  stove,  water  put  on  to  boil,  but 
like  all  country  cooks,  when  they  do  not  know  what  else 
to  do,  Milly  was  proceeding  to  make  biscuits. 

"  But  your  soup,  my  good  woman,"  exclaimed  Madame 
Joachim,  amazed  at  such  a  want  of  sense,  "  put  on  your 
soup!  don't  you  see  the  soup  meat  there  on  the  table? 
And  the  loaf  of  bread?  Get  your  rice  ready  to  boil! 
parch  your  coffee ! "  She  put  on  the  soup  pot  herself, 
poured  in  water,  added  the  soup  meat  and  looked  around. 
"Ah!  The  soup  vegetables!  Cribiche,  my  son!"  she 
called  out  of  the  window,  toward  the  fence,  "  Cribiche ! 
run  quick  over  there  to  Monsieur  le  Cure  and  ask  him 
for  some  onion  and  some  parsley  and  some  carrot  for 
the  soup  pot !  Run  quick,  I  see  him  in  the  garden  now !  " 

Cribiche,  evidently  did  not  like  this  commission.  It 
was  one  thing  going  to  the  blacksmith's  who  had  nothing 
against  him  and  another  going  to  the  priest.  Joachim 
feared  neither  God  nor  devil,  it  is  true,  when  he  was 
angry,  which  he  was  not  now,  but  the  priest  .  .  . 
Cribiche  had  his  reasons  for  avoiding  him.  "  But  will 
you  go  when  I  tell  you,"  impatiently  called  Madame 
Joachim  looking  out  of  the  window,  "  or  " — her  threat 
was  vague  but  effective.  Cribiche  at  once  crossed  the 


32        THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

street  to  the  priest's  garden  where  Pere  Phileas  was  hard 
at  work,  his  cassock  twisted  up  high  around  his  waist. 

Behind  the  church  was  the  priest's  habitation,  for  it 
could  not  be  called  a  house;  and  behind  the  house  was 
the  vacant  ground  which  he,  by  no  better  right  than 
squatter  sovereignty,  had  appropriated  for  his  garden. 
He  did  not  raise  his  head  but  remained  bending  over  his 
weeds  until  Cribiche  came  up  close  to  him,  and  he  would 
not  hear  what  he  was  saying  until  he  came  very  close; 
then,  like  a  loosened  spring,  he  shot  up  in  the  air,  seized 
Cribiche  with  his  left  hand,  boxed  him  soundly  with  his 
right,  and  shook  him  until  the  boy's  clothes  cracked. 

"  Is  this  the  way  you  pull  up  my  weeds  ?  Is  this  the 
way  you  come  straight  back  when  I  tell  you?  Is  this 
the  way  you  think  you  can  fool  me  ?  " 

Rough  as  he  was,  Joachim  with  his  strap  was  worse, 
this  was  all  the  consolation  Cribiche  had.  He  submitted 
without  a  struggle  and  without  an  answer,  since  both  were 
useless.  He  saw,  in  truth,  that  he  was  himself  in  fault, 
he  should  not  have  come  so  near,  too  near  to  dodge  or 
run ;  the  next  time,  he  swore  to  himself,  he  would  know 
better. 

When  the  priest  heard  the  request,  he  at  once  went 
to  work  to  comply  with  it,  and  generously,  although  it 
was  only  with  parsley,  onions,  and  carrots  and  a  bit  of 
thyme  which  Madame  Joachim  had  forgotten  to  ask  for. 
It  is*  so  pleasant  to  give  that  it  is  a  wonder  people  do  not 
more  generally  yield  themselves  up  to  this  form  of  self- 
indulgence.  As  for  poor  old  Pere  Phileas,  he  was  a  very 
sybarite  about  giving.  His  homely,  honest  face  beamed 
as  his  knotted  fingers  pulled  up  carrots  and  onions  and 
picked  the  parsley  and  thyme.  And  as  he  lost  no  occasion 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         33 

of  advancing  the  merits  of  God  with  such  a  partisan  of 
the  devil  as  Cribiche,  he  spoke  to  him  thus,  before  hand 
ing  him  the  bouquet  for  the  soup  (who  would  ever  sup 
pose  that  only  a  moment  before  he  had  been  cuffing  and 
shaking  him?)  : 

"  You  see,  my  son,  how  good  God  is !  He  sends  the 
friend  to  those  who  need  one,  and  he  sends  the  good 
deed  to  those  who  need  that;  to  those  who  can  bestow 
nothing  else,  good  deeds,  my  child,  are  the  picayunes  of 
the  poor.  We  are  never  too  poor  to  give  one  of  them 
even  if  we  have  not  a  cent  in  the  pocket.  The  devil 
can  always  provide  us  with  money,  but  it  is  only  God 
who  can  provide  us  with  a  good  deed.  And  even  when 
one  has  money,  one  is  always  glad  to  have  a  friend  as 
one  is  glad  to  have  the  moon  of  dark  nights." 

Cribiche  showed  as  much  appreciation  for  moral  lec 
tures  as  a  snapping  turtle  for  favors  bestowed  upon  his 
back;  and  as  a  snapping  turtle  under  a  disagreeable 
ordeal  advances  his  head  out  of  his  shell  from  time  to 
time  to  peep  with  his  little  shrewd  eyes  and  see  if  the 
way  is  clear,  so  did  Cribiche  peep  from  under  his  obstinate 
stolidity  and  dart  his  shrewd  little  glances  around. 

The  priest  accompanied  him  to  the  gate  and  held  him 
by  the  shoulder,  while  he  added  affectionately  and  gently : 
"  And  now  when  you  see  the  fruit  of  our  labors,  my  son, 
are  you  not  glad  that  you  did  even  a  small  portion  of  the 
work  here?  See,  we  can  give  the  vegetables  needed  for 
the  soup  of  a  neighbor — a  stranger  whom  we  do  not 
know,  who  does  not  know  us.  Think !  Yesterday,  that 
old  house  was  vacant,  silent;  today,  it  is  filled  with 
people;  and  just  as  we  transplant  a  vegetable  from  one 
garden  to  another,  the  good  God  has  transplanted  our 


34       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

new  neighbors  here,  to  St.  Medard,  from  whence,  we 
know  not,  and  the  old  house  becomes  an  object  of  our 
good  will  and  friendly  services.  And  we  will  grow 
together,  henceforth,  like  plants  in  the  same  plot.  The 
difference,  the  difference,  my  child,  always  think  of  the 
difference  between  yesterday  and  today,  .  .  .  and  fear 
and  love  God,  for  He  alone  accomplishes  what  we  think 
we  do  in  the  way  of  good,  as  the  devil  alone  accomplishes 
what  is  evil,  and  makes  us  evil.  And  be  very  careful  that 
the  devil  does  not  put  you  up  to  some  mischief  to  our 
new  neighbors.  If  he  tries  to,  put  him  behind  you,  or 
you  will  feel  Joachim's  strap.  Ah!  your  friend,  the 
devil,  never  saves  you  from  that,  you  know.  He  can 
lead  you  into  temptation  but  he  cannot  save  you  from  the 
punishment  .  .  .  And  do  not  forget  to  be  in  time  to 
ring  the  Angelus." 

But  Cicely's  chill  proved  to  be  not  her  chill,  the  one 
the  family  had  grown  accustomed  to,  that  came  and  went 
like  an  easy  tempered  conqueror.  A  different  and  a 
savage  enemy  indeed,  now  invaded  her  little  body.  It 
would  not  loose  its  grasp  upon  her ;  and,  when  the  fever 
came,  it  raged  like  a  conflagration,  consuming  remedies 
as  if  they  were  tinder.  When  called,  her  face  brightened 
in  response  and  she  strove  to  raise  her  head. 

"  Not  yet,  not  yet,  my  child "  coaxed  the  mother 
tenderly,  bending  over  her,  "  stay  in  bed  a  little  longer 
and  then  you  can  get  up  and  dress  and  help  us." 

"  Cicely  loves  to  work,"  she  explained  to  Madame 
Joachim.  "  She  never  complains  and  never  gives  up,  and 
as  soon  as  her  fever  is  off  she  is  as  well  as  ever,  eh, 
Cicely?  .  .  .  For  three  years  she  has  had  chills  and 
fever.  I  may  say  she  is  never  without  them.  Oh,  yes! 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         35 

Sometimes  we  were  able  to  break  them  and  she  would 
be  free,  but  only  for  a  little  while.  They  always  came 
back,  they  were  sure  to  come  back  in  the  Summer.  But 
never  mind !  it  will  soon  be  over  for  the  day,  eh,  Cicely ! 
she  added  cheerily  and  turned  to  her  work  again.  She 
had  taken  off  her  unnatural  costume  and  wore  her  short 
homespun  gown  once  more. 

"  Cribiche  has  never  been  sick  in  his  life,"  answered 
Madame  Joachim,  following  her  around  and  working 
as  busily  as  she.  "  We  have  not  much  sickness  down 
here,  a  little  fever  sometimes,  and  sometimes  chills  and 
fever.  Oh!  if  Doctor  Botot  had  to  live  from  his  prac 
tice,"  dragging  the  physician  into  her  conversation  by 
the  hair  of  his  head,  "  he  would  not  live  down  here.  No ! 
he  would  go  uptown  among  the  rich  Americans.  It  is 
curious,  how  the  rich  are  always  sick.  But  Botot  is  a 
good  doctor,  why  shouldn't  I  know  it  ?  When  he  comes  to 
a  sick  one,  the  first  thing  he  says  is :  '  Where  is  Madame 
Joachim  ?  Send  for  Madame  Joachim/  He  lives  on  the 
levee  in  that  fine  house  below  the  barracks.  Oh!  I 
guarantee,  he  lives  with  his  mother-in-law,  old  Madame 
Sereno.  She  says  she  is  poor,  but  don't  you  believe  her ; 
she  is  rich,  very  rich,  as  Doctor  Botot  knows.  He 
married  her  daughter,  en  secondes  noces.  The  first  time 
he  married  the  daughter  of  old  Beaume,  old  '  Beaume 
tranquille,  we  used  to  call  him,  the  pharmacien  on  Eng- 
hien  Street.  Botot  thought  he  had  money,  but  he  made 
a  mistake,  old  Beaume  did  not  collect  his  debts,  or  that  is 
what  they  said,"  shrugging  her  shoulders;  "anyhow  he 
did  not  leave  any  money,  and  when  Botot  became  a 
widower  he  married  Mademoiselle  Marie  Sereno.  She 
is  the  eldest  daughter;  Mademoiselle  Amelie  is  the 


36       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

youngest.  Mademoiselle  Marie  had  not  much  sense; 
everybody  thought  she  was  going  into  the  convent,  that 
it  was  her  vocation.  Bah!  it  is  well  to  say  that  when 
one  wants  an  excuse.  She  is  dead  now,  and  the  doctor 
is  a  widower,  but  not  for  long,  I  promise  you.  Some 
people  believe  that  chills  and  fever  won't  fool  you.  Don't 
you  believe  that.  Chills  and  fever  always  fool  you  if  you 
don't  cure  them.  Botot  is  a  good  doctor,  but  not  as 
good  a  doctor  as  he  thinks  he  is.  It  is  always  his  worst 
cases  that  he  cures ;  as  he  tells  about  them.  When  people 
die,  he  says  nothing  was  the  matter  only  they  did  not  take 
his  medicines.  But  he  knows  how  to  cure  chills  and 
fever.  I  have  seen  him  cure  them.  He  is  called  into  the 
barracks  sometimes  and  it  is  well  for  the  sick  that  he  is, 
for  the  doctor  there  looks  as  much  like  a  doctor  as 
Joachim  like  a  priest.  It  is  the  season  of  the  year  to 
cure  chills  and  fever." 

"  They  generally  go  away  in  the  Winter,"  said  Mrs. 
Talbot. 

"  Go  away !  Yes !  But,  my  God !  They  come  back  again ; 
if  you  are  there  for  them  to  come  back  to.  Sometimes 
you  are  not  there.  To  believe  what  Botot  says,  and  to 
believe  what  you  know,  are  cats  of  a  different  color.  But 
if  he  says  he  can  cure  chills  and  fever,  you  can  believe 
that.  .  .  .  You  can  see  him  pass  here  any  time,  going 
to  church.  He  goes  to  church  every  day,  he  is  very  pious. 
Mademoiselle  Marie  married  him  on  account  of  his  piety. 
She  also  was  very  pious.  You  should  see  him  praying  in 
church !  When  he  puts  on  his  '  bon  St.  Joseph  air,  bon 
St.  Joseph  vas  ' !  "  .  .  . 

"  He  is  very  rich,"  Madame  Joachim  resumed  to 
break  the  silence,  "  that  is  in  prospect.  Mademoiselle 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         37 

Amelia  it  is,  who  will  go  into  the  convent.  Oh,  no! 
She  will  not  get  married  .  .  .  She  will  not  meet  a  doctor 
as  pious  as  she  is.  No,  no,  she  will  go  into  the  convent, 
Botot  will  lead  her  there  himself.  And  he  will  fasten 
the  black  veil  on  her,  himself,  if  she  wishes.  You  ask 
him  if  Madame  Sereno  is  rich,  he  will  shrug  his 
shoulders.  He  will  say:  'Who  is  rich  after  a  war?' 
But  listen  to  me,  old  Madame  Sereno  is  rich ;  she  did  not 
lose  a  cent  by  the  war,  not  even  her  niggers.  Look  at 
them,  they  are  with  her  still.  Lose  her  money !  Tra,  la,  la, 
the  geese  in  the  street  know  better  than  that.  Other 
people  did  but  she  did  not.  Not  that  the  Yankees  did  not 
find  out  she  was  rich;  they  found  out  she  was  rich, 
just  as  Botot  found  out  she  was  rich.  Did  she  go  to 
France?  No.  Did  she  hide  and  pretend  she  had  gone? 
No.  She  sent  for  Louis,  her  man  of  affairs :  '  Louis/  she 
said,  '  see  this  paper,  the  Yankees  have  sent  me  to  sign 
...  they  will  come  for  it  in  three  days/  Then  she 
showed  him  some  money,  not  paper  money,  but  gold,  gold, 
I  tell  you.  '  You  know,  Louis,  I  could  sign  this  paper; 
I  could  take  this  "  host "  " ,  Madame  Joachim  called  it. 
'It  is  no  sin  to  lie  to  robbers,  but  I  don't  want  to 
be  bothered.  Here,  take  this  paper  and  I  give  you  the 
money;  but,  you  understand  me,  eh?  If  I  am  bothered, 
I  will  sign  the  paper,  I  will  take  the  host,  and  I  will  get 
absolution  for  it ;  but  you ' — Madame  Sereno  raised  her 
finger,  and  shook  it  at  Louis — '  you  will  lose  your 
place.  I  will  give  it  to  Simon.  Simon  is  not  a 
fool.'  Simon,  he  was  like  the  tooth-ache  to  Louis,  and 
that  is  the  way  Madame  Sereno  did,  and  kept  her  money 
and  property.  God  knows  if  it  is  true ;  but  that  is  what 
I  heard.  I  heard  too  that  it  was  not  Louis  but  an 


38       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  M&DARD 

American,  she  sent  for.  But  how  did  Louis  make  so 
much  money  then  ?  Doctor  Botot  is  a  good  doctor.  His 
father  was  a  good  doctor  for  children.  Only  he  was 
not  a  doctor  but  a  leecher.  They  used  to  send  for  him 
and  his  leeches  all  over  the  city."  And  Madame  Joachim 
with  her  fingers  imitated  how  leeches  were  worked  into 
a  soft  ball  of  clay.  "  I  have  bought  leeches  from  him 
often,  ..."  etc.,  etc.  She  talked  on  as  unremittingly 
as  she  worked. 

At  last,  the  day,  that  in  the  morning  lay  like  an 
unknown  coast  before  the  family,  drew  to  a  close,  and 
evening  began  to  enfold  it.  But  the  future  that  the 
father  had  planned,  that  the  family  was  to  enter  upon  at 
once,  the  very  next  day,  had  to  be  put  off.  At  one  time, 
it  seemed  indeed  as  if  the  family  would  enter  it  with  one 
member  missing.  Cicely  did  not  respond  to  her  name; 
she  was  found  to  be,  not  asleep,  but  in  a  stupor;  she 
could  not  be  aroused.  Cribiche  had  to  be  summoned 
from  ringing  the  Angelus  to  run  for  the  doctor. 

Ah!  Now  it  was  seen  that  there  was  but  one  terror 
in  life,  only  one;  and  it  came  from  no  earthly  enemy 
.  .  .  that  there  was  but  one  loss  that  counted  in  the 
world  .  .  .  but  one  thing  God  could  grant  that  was 
worth  praying  for! 

The  children  would  creep  on  tip-toe  to  the  door  and 
peep  through  at  Cicely  lying  delirious,  with  half -opened 
eyes.  "  Is  the  fever  going  down,  Mama  ?  "  they  would 
whisper,  and  when  she  would  shake  her  head,  they  would 
creep  softly  away,  more  and  more  frightened  by  the  look 
on  her  face.  They  had  seen  her  lose  battles,  armies,  a 
fortune,  a  home,  but  they  had  never  before  seen  her  lose 
a  child. 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         39 

In  her  delirium,  Cicely  babbled  about  the  plantation; 
laughing  and  laughing  over  her  drolleries. 

"  Merciful  God ! "  thought  the  mother  sitting  beside 
her.  "  What  had  she  there  to  laugh  over  ?  Sick,  sick, 
sick,  all  the  time,  hardly  a  day,  never  a  week  without 
fever  .  .  .  The  doctor  has  no  hope,  I  could  see 
it  ...  She  has  fought  and  fought,  but  her  strength 
is  exhausted.  She  has  no  chance !  She  is  doomed !  Too 
late!  too  late!  .  .  .  Perhaps  a  month  ago!  .  .  ." 
She  would  slip  her  hand  under  the  sheet  to  feel  the 
burning  body,  she  would  pass  cooling  cloths  over  face 
and  hands  ..."  Nothing  but  skin  and  bones  "... 
How  she  yearned  over  the  emaciated  body !  "  Her  poor 
little  hands,  her  poor  little  hands  like  bird  claws."  She 
laid  her  cheek  upon  them  and  the  tears  gushed  from  her 
eyes — she  who  had  boasted,  that  she  never  would  or 
could  give  up  hope  for  a  child  of  hers ! 

Her  heart  rose  up  in  passionate  revolt  and  through  her 
mind  raced  a  mob  of  thoughts  as  senseless  as  Cicely's 
delirium. 

"  I  thought,  I  thought,  when  the  war  was  over,  and 
peace  came,  when  we  could  get  back  to  our  home  and 
get  a  doctor,  I  thought  we  would  then  be  safe.  .  .  . 
Would  to  God  we  were  back  on  the  plantation !  Would 
to  God  the  war  was  still  going  on!  Would  to  God  I 
were  still  there,  in  that  lonely,  gloomy  place  all  by  my 
self  ;  for  there  I  could  still  hope,  I  had  still  something  to 
look  forward  to  ...  night  after  night  watching  and 
nursing  my  child  .  .  .  longing  for  daylight  just  to 
see  her  clearly  again;  but  never  losing  courage  .  .  . 
praying  that  God  would  work  a  miracle  and  send  a 
doctor  down  the  Bayou  when  I  knew  no  doctor  could 


40       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

come ;  running  to  the  window  to  listen,  sure  that  I  heard 
a  skiff  and  that  it  was  bringing  a  doctor  .  .  .  hearing 
only  the  rippling  of  the  water  under  the  gunwales  that 
sounded  sometimes  like  the  whining  of  a  child  in 
pain  .  .  .  God  did  not  send  a  doctor,  but  he  heard 
my  prayers.  He  cured  my  child.  He  had  to  cure  her, 
for  we  had  no  medicines  to  give  her !  There,  her  fever 
always  went  away  at  last !  " 

On  the  other  side  of  the  bed  sat  her  husband;  his 
face  graver  and  sterner  than  ever. 

"  He  should  not  have  taken  us  to  that  fever-stricken 
place !  "  Her  gentle  thoughts,  changed  into  furies  by  her 
grief,  knew  no  bounds  in  their  pitiless  course.  "  He 
should  not  have  kept  us  there !  He  knew  it  was  a  swamp ! 
He  knew  it  was  unhealthy!  He  knew  it,  he  knew  it! 
Other  men  could  send  their  families  into  healthy  refuges. 
Other  men  could  send  them  to  Europe ! " 

To  Europe!  She  had  forgotten  the  scorn  and  con 
tempt  she  once  poured  upon  those  patriots  who  preferred 
for  their  children  the  easy  comfort  of  Europe  to  the 
heroic  hardships  of  war;  upon  the  poor-spirited  women 
who  could  accept  the  despicable  role  of  flying  from 
danger  and  from  their  husbands,  of  abandoning  their 
country  fighting  for  its  life,  armies  weltering  in  their 
blood  on  the  battlefield ! 

"  He  said  the  war  would  not  last !  It  would  soon 
be  over!  And  we  would  all  be  home  again.  Ah!  he 
always  imagines  that  what  he  thinks  is  going  to  happen ! 
He  thought  it  was  our  duty  to  stay  and  look  after  the 
negroes!  He  could  think  of  them;  he  could  not  think 
of  us!  Duty!  Duty!  Duty  is  his  God!  And  it  costs  us 
the  life  of  our  child!  .  .  .  She  was  always  delicate 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         41 

and  frail  but  the  prettiest  and  brightest  of  them  all! 
When  she  was  born,  I  felt  so  happy!  I  never  had 
thought  that  earth  held  such  happiness  as  I  felt 
then!  .  .  .  And  when  he  came  to  me,  he  made  me 
feel  so  proud !  I  would  not  have  changed  places  with  the 
greatest  queen  on  earth! " 

And  now  the  little,  bare,  uncomfortable  room  in  St. 
Medard  changed  to  the  great,  luxurious,  dimly  lighted 
chamber,  where  in  a  lace  curtained  bed,  she  lay  with 
Cicely  at  her  side.  She  heard  again  the  soft  tread  of  her 
husband  over  the  carpet,  .  .  .  was  it  his  tread,  or  the 
beating  of  her  heart  she  heard  ?  She  lifted  her  eyelids, 
he  was  there,  he  was  there  bending  over  her  . 
Cicely  had  ceased  her  delirious  babbling,  a  gentle  calm 
had  fallen  over  the  room,  the  shaded  candle  in  the  corner 
made  a  soothing  twilight.  The  long  black  hours  passed, 
holding  the  suspensive  balance  even.  The  gray  dawn 
came,  the  light  of  day  fell  over  the  bed.  "Cicely! 
Cicely !  "  her  father  laid  his  hand  on  her  cooling  forehead 
and  called  her.  The  good  little  thing,  who  had  never 
known  what  it  was  to  be  disobedient  or  hold  back  when 
she  heard  her  father  calling,  was  seen  to  strive  to  answer, 
but  she  could  not.  "  Cicely!  Cicely! "  She  heard  him, 
she  was  wanted,  she  could  not  answer.  Her  heart 
strained  and  strained,  her  thin  breast  lifted,  fell  and 
lifted  .  .  .  a^  last  a  faint  moan  came  through  her  lips 
and  her  eyes  opened,  she  tried  to  smile. 

"  Doctor  Botot !  Doctor  Botot,"  exclaimed  Madame 
Joachim.  "  Did  I  not  tell  you  that  there  was  no  better 
doctor  in  the  city  for  fevers  than  Doctor  Botot?  " 

"  Madame  Joachim,"  said  the  doctor  later.  "  Well,  if 
you  want  a  good  nurse,  you  send  for  Madame  Joachim. 


42        THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

Joachim/'  he  added,  "  Joachim  looks  like  a  pirate,  but 
if  you  ever  want  good  Spanish  wine,  you  send  to 
Joachim." 

Ah!  the  future  could  begin  now  whenever  it  chose. 
The  land,  that  the  day  before  lay  like  an  unknown  shore 
before  them,  they  were  in  it  now,  and  what  a  beautiful 
land  it  was! 

The  mother  and  all  the  children  followed  the  doctor, 
as  captives  a  deliverer,  surrounding  him  as  he  stood  on 
the  front  gallery,  their  faces  aglow  with  gratitude  and 
admiration.  To  a  question  the  mother  answered  lightly, 
and  pleasantly.  "  Oh !  where  we  were  living,  on  the 
plantation,  it  was  so  far  from  any  doctor  that  we  had 
to  learn  to  doctor  ourselves.  It  took  a  day  to  get  to  the 
nearest  town,  and  of  course  a  day  to  return,  and  then  as 
likely  as  not,  when  our  messenger  got  there,  the  doctor 
would  be  away,  a  day's  journey  off  somewhere.  But 
we  had  doctor's  books  and  we  followed  their  directions, 
that  is  so  long  as  we  had  medicines,  but  we  got  entirely 
out  of  medicine."  And  here  she  laughed  as  at  a  humor 
ous  recollection.  "  When  the  quinine  gave  out  we  had  to 
use  willow  bark  tea.  It  was  as  bitter  as  quinine  anyway 
and  at  first  it  seemed  to  do  Cicely  a  great  deal  of  good. 
And  there  was  an  old  Indian  woman  doctor ;  the  Indians 
were  our  nearest  neighbors,  they  lived  on  a  mound  in  the 
swamp.  We  sent  for  her  to  come  every  now  and  then. 
She  brought  her  herbs  with  her,  and  sometimes  they  did 
Cicely  a  great  deal  of  good  too." 

"  Why  did  you  not  come  to  the  city?  "  asked  the  doctor. 

"  To  the  city !    But  it  was  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy !  " 

The  doctor  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  And  you  were 
not  in  the  hands  of  the  enemy,  eh?  on  the  plantation?  " 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         43 

"  It  was  the  swamps  all  around  that  gave  us  chills  and 
fever,"  she  replied  simply. 

"You  had  the  chills  and  fever  there  too?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  all  of  us  had  them,  and  sometimes,"  with 
a  smile,  "  we  all  had  them  at  the  same  time.  My  husband 
said,  when  we  went  there,  that  the  enemy  would  never 
find  us  and  they  did  not  until  last  year  ...  we  were 
so  far  away,  we  could  not  get  letters,  we  could  not  get 
newspapers  ..." 

"  But  you  could  get  the  chills  there,"  the  doctor  inter 
rupted  facetiously. 

"  Oh,  yes !  "  with  a  decided  affirmation  of  the  head. 

"And  plenty  of  food?" 

"  Oh,  no !  at  least  not  at  the  end.  Food  became  very 
scarce  then.  And  after  the  overflow,  we  had  nothing 
but  corn  bread  and  some  fat  meat.  All  the  cattle,  you 
know,  were  drowned." 

"You  were  overflowed?" 

"  Oh,  yes !  Twice,  two  years  in  succession.  Once  for 
six  weeks.  When  our  people  cut  Grand  Levee,  you 
know,  to  prevent  the  advance  of  the  enemy,  or  their 
retreat,  one  or  the  other,  I  don't  know  which.  All  of 
our  section  of  the  country  went  under  water  then." 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"  We  had  food  up  to  that  time.  But  one  day,  a  gunboat 
passed,  that  is  a  steamboat  with  cannon  and  soldiers 
on  it.  We  believe  it  must  have  got  into  our  Bayou  acci 
dentally,  for  no  one  in  that  part  of  the  country  would 
have  piloted  them  "... 

"  And  after  that  you  had  no  food?  " 

"  No,  the  soldiers  threw  our  meal  and  meat  in  the 
Bayou." 


44       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

"  And  Cicely  was  sick  then  ?  " 

"  She  had  just  had  a  hard  chill ;  it  was  her  day  to 
have  it."  She  paused  and  as  the  doctor  said  nothing, 
she  continued :  "  We  fished  up  some  of  the  meat  out  of 
the  Bayou  as  soon  as  their  backs  were  turned  but  after  a 
little  while  we  could  not  eat  it.  The  soaking  in  the  water 
spoiled  it.  It  was  not  very  well  cured  anyway.  We 
cured  it  ourselves  but  we  did  not  have  salt  enough,  salt 
was  very  scarce."  .  .  . 

The  doctor  was  a  handsome  man  and  if  nearly  as  old 
as  his  mother-in-law  as  Madame  Joachim  said,  he  did  not 
show  his  age,  unless  Madame  Sereno  was  in  the 
neighborhood  of  forty-five.  His  short  curling  black  hair 
and  beard,  his  teeth  and  eyes  were  all  favorable  to  his 
appearance;  and  if  his  dark  complexion  showed  lines, 
they  were  still  far  from  being  wrinkles.  He  had  a 
genial  voice,  his  linen  was  fine,  his  broadcloth  well  made, 
his  watchchain  was  massive  with  a  great  seal  ring  and  a 
number  of  trinkets  dangling  from  the  loose  end  over  his 
waistcoat. 

"  Well,  keep  her  quiet,"  he  admonished,  "  in 
bed"  .  .  . 

"  That,"  interrupted  the  mother,  hastily,  "  we  will 
never  be  able  to  do.  Even  her  father  cannot  make  Cicely 
keep  in  bed  after  the  fever  and  chill  are  over." 

And  all  the  children  who  were  standing  around  listen 
ing,  shook  their  heads  and  murmured  their  doubts  about 
Cicely's  staying  in  bed.  "  She  must  stay  in  bed  now," 
ordered  the  doctor  decisively.  Turning  around,  he  went 
back  to  Cicely  in  bed  and  repeated  to  her :  "  She  must 
stay  in  bed  now  and  when  Monsieur  le  Chill  comes  again, 
he  will  find  us  in  bed  to  receive  him,  eh,  Cicely?  and 


A  JOURNEY  INTO  A  FAR  COUNTRY         45 

we  will  arrange  it  so  that  he  will  not  come  so  often, 
and  then  he  will  not  come  at  all.  We  know  how  to  get 
rid  of  an  importunate  visitor,  eh,  Cicely?"  He  looked 
down  upon  her  with  what  Madame  Joachim  called  his 
"  bon  St.  Joseph  "  air  and  Cicely  gave  in  to  it,  as  his 
wife  had  done,  and  his  mother-in-law  and  sister-in-law, 
and  his  little  patients  at  the  convent  gave  in  to  it;  all 
the  nervous  irritability  of  her  long,  wearying  illness, 
disappearing  from  her  thin  peaked,  wan  little  face. 

As  he  walked  back  to  the  gallery,  his  face  for  a  moment 
looked  somber. 

"  As  my  husband  says,"  the  mother  apologized  hastily, 
"  it  is  the  fortunes  of  war." 

"  There  are  no  fortunes  of  war,  Madame,"  he  retorted 
sharply.  "  There  are  no  fortunes  of  war  for  women 
and  children.  It  is  all  misfortunes  for  them,  they  are 
the  sufferers ;  and  their  war  goes  on  after  the  peace,  they 
will  be  still  suffering  for  it,  when  the  war  is  forgotten." 
He  stopped  abruptly  but  the  children  did  not  hear  him, 
they  had  stayed  with  Cicely. 

"  Well,  you  will  give  her  good  food  now  and  plenty  of 
it."  He  told  her  what  to  get  and  where  to  buy  it,  the 
meat  from  this  one,  the  bread  from  that  one,  the  milk — 
"  Get  your  milk  from  Madame  San  Antonio,  yes,  from 
Madame  San  Antonio,  I  will  tell  her  about  it." 

"  We  must  send  them  at  once  to  school  " — the  mother 
pursued  the  important  thought  in  her  mind — "  the  boys 
to  the  public  school,  we  think  .  .  .  " 

"  To  the  public  school !  No,  no !  you  cannot  send  them 
to  the  public  school  now,  the  public  schools  are  de 
moralized.  The  niggers  go  to  our  public  schools  now. 
No,  no,  you  send  them  to  my  friend  Badeau.  Monsieur 


46       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

le  Colonel  Badeau,  an  old  officer  in  the  French  army. 
He  teaches  well  and  he  maintains  discipline.  His  father 
was  an  officer  under  the  great  Napoleon,  not  the  little 
one,  and  his  son  believes  in  the  discipline  of  '  le  petit 
Caporal.'  You  ask  him  about  '  le  petit  Caporal '  and 
you  will  hear  some  good  stories.  I  will  see  Badeau, 
myself  for  you.  The  little  girls  will  go  to  the  convent, 
of  course." 

"  Oh,  no !    We  are  Protestants,  you  know." 

"  But  that  makes  no  difference.  Protestants  can  go 
to  a  convent  as  well  as  Catholics.  A  convent  is  the  best 
place  to  educate  little  girls  in  and  those  ladies  of  the 
Ursulines  ..." 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  they  educate  perfectly,  but  my  husband 
thinks  ..." 

"  Oh,  well !  I  understand,"  he  now  interrupted  her, 
"  then  you  must  send  them  to  Mademoiselle  Mimi, 
Mademoiselle  Mimi  Pinseau,  s-e-a-u;  not  Pinson,  s-o-n; 
ha,  ha,  ha. 

"  '  Mimi  Pinson  est  une  blonde, 
Une  blonde  que  Von  connait,' ' 

he  quoted.  "  Mademoiselle  Mimi  is  the  teacher  for  you. 
She  has  a  school,  just  there,"  pointing  in  the  direction 
of  the  church.  "  You  go  to  Mademoiselle  Mimi,  no,  no, 
I  will  go  to  her  myself  and  tell  her  to  come  to  you." 

He  descended  the  steps  of  the  gallery  and  walked  down 
the  garden  path  murmuring  to  himself : 

"  C'est  I'etui  d'une  perle  fine, 
La  robe  de  Mimi  Pinson    .  .  ." 


MADEMOISELLE   MIMI 

MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  lost  no  time  in  going  to  the 
Americans  who,  according  to  Doctor  Botot,  might  need 
her  services;  who,  she  hoped,  would  need  them  in  some 
infinitesimal  fraction  of  a  degree  as  much  as  she  needed 
their  money.  She  walked  along  hurriedly  as  if  the 
opportunity  were  a  car  she  had  to  catch ;  and  not  a  slow 
mule  car  that  jogged  by  every  fifteen  minutes,  but  a 
steam  train  that  would  flash  past  out  of  her  sight,  never 
perhaps  to  be  seen  again.  As  she  went  through  the  lane, 
the  weeds  looked  so  green,  their  flowers  so  saucy,  the 
darting  butterflies  and  bees  so  gay,  the  sun  so  bright, — 
with  the  breeze  blowing  from  the  river  with  such  ex 
hilarating  freshness, — that  she  could  not  but  argue  well 
from  such  auspices.  However,  when  there  was  some 
thing  for  her  to  do  and  a  few  extra  dimes  to  be  made, 
she  cared  for  auspices,  favorable  or  unfavorable,  as 
little  as  did  Mimi  Pinson.  Thunder,  lightning,  and  rain 
would  have  been  just  the  same  to  her  as  flowers,  butter 
flies,  and  a  blue  sky,  if  at  the  end  of  the  lane  was  to  be 
found  a  patron  with  little  girls  to  teach.  Her  fingers 
ran  over  the  scales  and  exercises,  they  were  always 
playing  in  imagination  while  her  mind  ran  hurriedly  over 
all  she  could  teach  the  said  little  girls,  the  little  girls  of  a 
lady  and  requiring  more  in  the  way  of  education  than 
those  of  her  Gascon  clients.  English  and  French,  music, 
solfege,  history,  geography,  arithmetic,  grammar,  litera- 

47 


48        THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

ture,  synonyms,  mythology,  cosmography,  drawing,  em 
broidery,  and  marking  in  cross  stitch,  even.  In  fact  there 
was  stored  away  in  her  mind  a  beautiful  and  expensive 
education ;  everything  had  been  bought  for  it  that  money 
could  buy.  Some  of  the  articles,  it  is  true,  like  some  of 
the  dresses  and  finery  in  her  armoires,  never  had  been 
used  or  at  least  worn  only  once  or  twice,  but  they  were 
there,  and  what  she  had  learned  she  could  teach.  To 
go  over  her  curriculum  would  be  nothing  more  to  her 
than  going  through  the  well  learned  steps  of  a  quadrille. 
And  she  could  teach  dancing  too,  for  she  had  learned  also 
that  accomplishment  so  valueless  to  an  ugly  woman; 
for  dancing  is  like  marriage,  a  lady  must  be  invited 
thereto,  and  what  beau  leads  out  an  ugly  partner  unless 
^she  be  rich?  And  unfortunately,  Mademoiselle  Mimi 
had  become  poor  at  the  very  time  when  her  money,  so 
to  speak,  might  have  floated  her  ugliness  into  society. 

These  thoughts  she  spoke  quite  frankly  to  Mrs.  Talbot 
when  their  scholastic  arrangements  had  been  made,  for 
she  was  unused  to  business  methods  and  ignorant  of  the 
profits  of  reserve  if  not  of  misinformation. 

The  mother,  quite  as  open  on  her  part,  went  back  to 
her  usual  starting  point,  her  recent  life  on  the  isolated 
plantation  in  order  properly  to  introduce  her  husband's 
ideas  about  the  education  of  women,  or  ladies,  as  she 
called  them. 

"  He  has  a  perfect  horror  of  learned  ladies,  *  blue 
stockings '  who  quote  Latin  and  Greek  and  talk  algebra 
and  astronomy.  They  are  to  him,  simply,  ladies  with 
big  feet.  He  likes  charming  ladies,  those  who  are  good 
looking,  who  dress  well,  have  exquisite  manners,  who 
talk  well,  who  have  tact.  Oh!  he  is  most  particular 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  49 

about  tact  and  talking  well.  He  cannot  stand  stupid 
ladies.  Those  who  have  no  tact  and  cannot  talk  well, 
they  are  monsters  to  him.  The  woman  who  always  says 
the  right  thing,  and  does  the  right  thing,  and  is  always 
dressed  the  right  way,  neither  too  much  nor  too  little, 
.  .  .  that  is  his  ideal  for  his  daughters.  And  it  seems, 
he  met  just  such  women  when  he  came  to  New  Orleans 
from  Virginia,  when  he  was  a  young  man  fresh  from 
the  University.  He  often  talks  about  them." 

"  The  father  proposes,  but  God  disposes,"  quoted 
Mademoiselle  Mimi.  "  My  father  too  had  an  ideal  like 
that,  but  ..."  she  shrugged  her  shoulders  signifi 
cantly. 

Mrs.  Talbot  looked  at  her  in  some  confusion,  as  over 
a  lack  of  tact  on  her  own  part. 

Mademoiselle  Mimi  was  not,  it  must  be  confessed,  the 
realization  of  an  ambitious  father's  dream  for  a 
daughter.  She  had  not  a  desirable  feature  in  her  face, 
which  to  begin  with,  was  slightly  crusted  with  the  heat, 
that  kept  it  all  Summer  inflamed  and  red.  Her  eyes  were 
light,  round  and  protuberant ;  her  hair  curled,  it  is  true, 
but  it  was  thin  and  scant  over  the  temples  where  it  was 
most  needed,  for  they  were  unduly  high.  Her  mouth, 
like  her  eyes,  was  protuberant,  and  the  teeth  that  might 
have  beautified  it  were  defective  and  patched  with  gold 
in  all  directions.  This,  instead  of  what  should  have 
been — according  to  physiologists  and  physiognomists — 
a  long  thin,  oval  face  with  tender  eyes  and  the  soft 
luxuriant  hair  of  a  Saint  Cecilia,  for  instance,  with  a 
figure  to  correspond  instead  of  the  one  she  had  with 
its  inelegant  appearance  of  being  long-waisted  and  short- 
legged  at  the  same  time.  Alas! 


50       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  M&DARD 

It  would  seem  absurd,  even  to  suggest  the  truth,  that 
Mademoiselle  Mimi's  face,  notwithstanding  all  the 
negative  votes  cast  as  it  were  against  it,  was  on  the  whole 
agreeable  and  winning,  and  stranger  still,  that,  far  as 
she  evidently  was  removed  from  the  charming  conversa 
tionalists  of  Mr.  Talbot's  memory,  she  was,  in  her  way, 
an  interesting  talker;  for  she  did  not  talk  to  please,  a 
drawback  to  the  charm  of  the  above-mentioned  lady  con 
versationalists,  any  more  than  she  ate  to  please,  and 
would  have  been  as  incapable  of  telling  a  lie  to  adorn  her 
conversation  as  of  telling  one  to  a  stranger  asking  the 
way  of  her. 

It  was  Mrs.  Talbot's  amiable  delusion  that  all  im 
poverished  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  in  the  same  box 
with  her  husband  and  herself;  that  is  that  their  losses 
came  through  the  fortunes  of  war  as  she  docilely  called 
the  process.  And  as  she  seldom  reflected  when  her  heart 
was  moved  and  as  it  was  moved  now  in  Mademoiselle 
Mimi's  direction,  she  assumed  this  delusion  in  her  talk, 
as  a  matter  of  course.  It  produced  an  instant  disclaimer 
from  Mademoiselle  Mimi.  "  Oh,  no !  You  must  not 
think  that!  We  have  no  such  good  luck!  There  is 
nothing  to  be  proud  of  in  the  way  we  lost  our  money! 
We,  simply  spent  all  we  had!  Threw  it  away  in  good 
eating,  good  drinking,  good  living,  enjoying  ourselves! 
Dissipated  it,  in  truth  and  we  have  not  been  able  to  make 
any  more,  that  is  all.  We  are  like  the  cigale:  'Nous 
avons  chante  tout  I' etc,'  et  nous  travaillons  maintenant." 

"  Oh !  Oh ! "  began  Mrs.  Talbot  again  in  con 
fusion  .  .  . 

"  No !  No !  It  was  very  polite  of  you  on  the  contrary," 
interrupted  Mademoiselle  Mimi,  "  to  assume  that  we 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  51 

were  distinguished  patriots.  If  you  had  lived  here  a 
little  longer,  any  one  would  have  told  you  that  our 
poverty  antedated  the  war  by  a  good  many  years.  We 
came  down  here  not  yesterday,  but  before  the  war  to  take 
refuge  from  our  past ;  this  is  our  '  Terre  aux  Lepreux/  ' 
alluding  to  the  old  custom  of  forcing  all  lepers  to  live 
in  one  definite  locality  which  became  in  time  named 
after  them. 

There  was  not  much  in  Mademoiselle  Mimi's  life  that 
was  not  known  to  her  neighbors,  and  that  her  new 
friend  did  not  find  out  later  from  Madame  Joachim 
and  the  doctor,  and  the  priest  and  Cribiche  .  .  .  All 
knew  something  and  each  one  was  willing  to  make 
common  property  of  individual  collections  from  hearsay, 
observation  and  deduction.  The  history  of  St.  Medard 
himself  was  not  better  known. 

Mademoiselle  Mimi,  as  all  were  glad  to  proclaim  on 
all  occasions  supported  her  father  who  had  dissipated  his 
own  and  his  wife's  fortune  and  thus  impoverished  the 
daughter.  She  supported  him  by  teaching  anything  she 
knew  to  any  scholar  she  could  get,  and  as  the  expression 
went,  she  "  held  "  the  organ  in  the  church.  But  like  the 
priest  she  was  always  the  last  paid  creditor  in  the  parish 
and  generally  the  worst  paid  for  her  services;  and  like 
him,  unfortunately,  too  often  she  had  to  accept  pro 
visions,  "nature"  as  it  was  naively  called,  for  legal 
tender. 

Madame  Joachim's  ultimate  reference  and  repository, 
God  alone  knew  how  much  or  how  little  Mademoiselle 
Mimi  made  for  the  Gascons  in  the  parish  of  St.  Medard 
are  no  more  bigots  for  truth  than  Gascons  elsewhere; 
but,  as  no  one  did  tell,  the  truth  may  be  looked  for  any- 


52        THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

where  in  the  long  medium  between  poor  pay  and  none 
at  all. 

Monsieur  Pinseau  had  been  celebrated  in  his  day  as  a 
beau,  a  wit,  a  gourmet,  a  farceur,  as  everything,  in  short, 
that  passed  for  charming  in  the  high  society  not  only  of 
New  Orleans,  but  any  metropolis  of  fashion,  elegance 
and  good  living.  Now,  he  was  briefly  described  as  a 
notorious  spendthrift,  an  old  roue,  who  deserved  all 
the  punishment  he  had  received  as  just  penalty  for  his 
past  sins.  He  had  not  married  young,  he  had  been  too 
much  of  a  beau  for  that.  The  real  beau,  like  the  real 
''belle,  cares  little  for  marriage;  they  are  lovers  of  the 
fragrance  of  the  flower,  not  of  the  flower  itself,  and 
when  either  gets  married,  it  is  for  considerations,  one 
\night  say,  rather  than  desires.  Monsieur  Pinseau  made 
a  most  considerate  marriage,  one  that  showed  a  sound 
business  ability,  such  as  few  believed  he  possessed.  A 
great  folly  had  been  expected  of  him  with  all  sorts  of 
ineligible  ladies;  from  a  pretty,  unknown  girl  met  by 
chance,  to  a  pretty  ballet  girl  met  by  appointment.  But 
"  nenni,"  as  Madame  Joachim  said,  "  he  had  another  dog 
to  whip  when  it  came  to  marriage."  He  put  folly  aside 
before  this  serious  question  and  married  his  second 
cousin,  who  was  known  as  the  richest  heiress  in 
Louisiana,  and  the  plainest.  Heiresses  do  not  marry 
for  money,  and  it  is  they  who  commit  a  folly  when  they 
marry  for  love,  as  the  world  knows.  And  the  plainer 
of  feature  an  heiress  is,  the  plainer  of  intellect,  the  more 
surely  is  she  apt  to  rely  upon  that  unreliable  adviser  the 
heart.  Whatever  were  Monsieur  Pinseau's  feelings  in 
regard  to  her,  she  loved  him  .  .  .  and  hence  her 
suffering. 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  53 

When  his  bride's  virgin  fortune  was  placed  in  his 
hands,  Monsieur  Pinseau,  with  the  new  accession  of 
means,  obtained  such  an  accession  of  pleasure,  that  from 
his  own  point  of  view,  his  marriage  might  have  been 
called  a  happy  one.  Particularly,  as  before  this  event 
he  had  had  moments  of  unhappiness  over  the  certainty 
of  his  happiness. 

But  Madame  Pinseau,  poor  Madame  Pinseau,  as  all 
authorities  call  her,  when  the  glamor  of  her  situation 
had  worn  away  sufficiently  to  allow  her  the  natural  use 
of  her  eyes,  grew  wan  and  ill-tempered,  not  only  for 
want  of  love  but  from  seeing  her  money  spent  with  such 
open-handed  prodigality.  Money  had  been  the  distinc 
tion  of  her  family  for  generations;  it  was  their  rock, 
their  fortress,  their  sure  refuge  in  every  time  of  trouble. 
When  death  carried  away  in  due  season  the  reigning 
head  of  the  family,  it  was  always  a  consolation  to  the 
survivors  to  feel  that  the  money  still  lived,  that  it  was 
left,  the  family  fortune,  intact.  And  Madame  Pinseau, 
the  heiress  of  it,  to  whom  it  had  come  safely,  un- 
diminished,  in  all  the  rounded  perfection  of  its  rare 
golden  bloom — she  knew  as  perhaps  no  one  could  know 
better  that  a  woman's  money  is  "  her  greatest  ornament, 
and  priceless  boon  in  life  " ;  that,  as  it  has  also  been  poetic- 
expressed  in  regard  to  her  innocence,  once  gone,  no 
repentance  ever  brought  it  back.  Innocence !  She  knew 
that  the  Church  and  Society  did  accept  spurious  inno 
cence,  but  spurious  money,  or  repentance  in  lieu  of  the 
stamped  coin!  Never. 

What  Providence  should  have  done,  according  to 
Madame  Joachim,  was  to  despatch  Monsieur  Pinseau 
and  let  Madame  live.  Unfortunately,  Monsieur  Pinseau 


54       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

was  strong  and  hearty;  his  wife,  nervous,  hysterical, 
sickly ;  always  in  the  hands  of  her  physician  or  when  not 
in  his  hands,  in  the  hands  of  her  priest.  And  beyond 
an  accident,  Providence  seems  to  have  no  legitimate  way 
of  getting  rid  of  a  man  of  strong  constitution;  nor  save 
by  a  miracle,  of  preserving  the  life  of  a  weak  one.  As 
Madame  Joachim  complained  with  bitterness,  after  kill 
ing  his  wife,  Monsieur  Pinseau  was  rewarded  by  having 
another  woman,  an  angel,  to  support  him.  And  the 
prospect  was  that  he  would  live  upon  her  until  she  was  as 
old  as  he  was  now,  which  must  be  sixty  or  past.  And, 
unfortunately,  although  he  was  an  invalid,  and  in 
capacitated  from  work,  yet  he  had  no  suffering  to  com 
plain  of,  that  is  as  far  as  any  one  knew,  for  it  was 
notorious  that  he  never  complained  of  his  gout.  "  But 
thank  God ! "  said  Madame  Joachim,  "  Mademoiselle 
Mimi  is  as  strong  as  he  used  to  be,  and  has  more  sense 
than  he  ever  had." 

Ladies,  even  the  best  of  them  and  the  most  devout, 
have  a  way  of  avoiding  confession  to  a  priest  who  knows 
them.  They  say  there  are  reasons  why  a  stranger,  or 
at  least  not  a  familiar  or  an  intimate  of  the  family, 
makes  a  better  confessor.  Mademoiselle  Mimi  was  not 
of  this  kind.  When  she  came  into  the  parish  of  St. 
Medard,  she  accepted  the  church  and  the  priest  just  as 
she  accepted  the  little  house  that  had  been  placed  at  her 
disposal  for  a  home.  Pere  Phileas,  therefore,  was  speak 
ing  with  the  authority  of  one  who  has  the  means  of 
knowing  to  a  certainty  whereof  he  spoke,  when  in  his 
hard,  rough,  peasant  French  he  told  his  flock  that  al 
though  they  talked  so  surely  of  one  another's  affairs,  and 
judged  one  another  with  such  certainty,  and  said  what 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  55 

God  ought  to  do  and  ought  not  to  do,  that  they  only 
knew  of  life  what  they  could  see  with  their  little, 
miserable,  cunning,  human  eyes ;  and  what  they  saw  of  it 
was  little  better  than  what  their  corn  and  cabbages  saw 
of  it.  But  God  above  saw  what  life  really  was.  And  he 
would  compare  what  God  saw  of  some  of  the  characters 
of  that  little  parish, — that  poor  little  humble  St.  Medard, 
where  there  had  not  been  found  money  enough  in  twenty 
years  to  paint  the  inside  of  the  church, — he  would  com 
pare  such  characters,  "  God's  illustrations  of  life,"  he 
called  them,  with  the  illustrations  that  were  drawn  by  the 
artists  of  great  journals,  in  which  the  rich  gifts  of  life: 
youth,  beauty,  health,  strength,  talent,  sentiment,  piety 
.  .  .  were  disposed  of  in  such  a  way,  that  a  simple 
reader  might  suppose  that  all  these  prize  qualities  had 
been  driven,  hissed,  hounded  from  among  the  poor  who 
are  also  called  the  "  lower  classes,"  and  had,  therefore, 
taken  refuge  in  the  "  upper  classes,"  as  the  rich  were 
called;  and  that  vice,  only,  and  crime  and  ugliness  had 
stayed  with  the  lower  classes.  No,  not  like  Versailles, 
he  assured  them  was  God's  picture  gallery.  ( He  had  once 
been  to  Versailles  when  a  Seminarist  and  what  he  had 
seen  there  had  made  such  an  impression  upon  him  that 
he  brought  it  into  almost  every  sermon,)  "Not  like 
Versailles,  was  God's  picture  gallery."  He  doubted 
whether  any  court  beauty  would  be  found  in  it,  but  it 
was  not  to  be  doubted,  that  every  poor,  honest  Christian 
who  lived  not  for  self  alone  but  for  others  would  be 
found  there;  that  in  short,  God's  beauties,  different  from 
those  of  Louis  XIV  and  Louis  XV,  would  be  the  ugly 
ones  of  the  earth;  his  great  ones,  the  humble  and  the 
lowly  ones;  his  rich  ones,  the  poor  of  the  earth.  All  of 


56       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

which,  as  Pere  Phileas  intended  it  to  be,  was  comforting 
to  his  parishioners,  who  for  the  most  part  were  poor  and 
ugly  enough  and  undistinguished  enough  to  suit  any 
amateur  of  such  works  of  art.  Indeed,  the  only  rich 
people  in  it  were  the  San  Antonios. 

But  to  return  very  far  back  to  our  subject,  Monsieur 
Pinseau  was  really  better  than  his  reputation.  Although 
he  had  spent  all  his  money,  he  had  retained  his  good 
qualities,  the  qualities  of  his  defects,  which  were  usually 
left  out  of  his  description  now.  He  was  good-humored, 
amiable,  intelligent,  kind-hearted,  now,  as  he  had  always 
been.  And,  in  fact,  if  he  had  not  possessed  these  good 
qualities,  could  he  have  been  the  spendthrift  that  he  had 
proved  himself  to  be?  There  could  not  be  such  a  thing 
as  a  sordid,  mean,  stingy  spendthrift;  or  a  stupid  one, 
for  imagination  has  been  the  tempter  from  Eve  down 
wards.  The  castaways  of  the  beau  monde  are  as  a 
rule  the  good  fellows  who  have  spent  their  money  in  it. 
Society  in  the  length  of  human  memory  has  never  cast 
away  a  bad  fellow  if  he  has  kept  his  money.  Society 
can  forgive,  and  has  forgiven,  even  criminals  if  they 
are  rich.  If  the  rich  man  slaps  it  on  one  cheek,  does  it 
not  turn  the  other  one  also?  If  he  takes  its  coat,  does 
not  Society  straightway  offer  its  cloak  also? 

But  all  this  wisdom  came  to  Papa  Pinseau  long,  long 
after  he  was  able  to  profit  by  it ;  and,  it  seemed,  the  less 
he  was  able  to  profit  by  it,  the  more  abundantly  it  came 
to  him.  He  was  now  almost  incapacitated  by  infirmity, 
and  never  again  in  this  world  would  he  be  able  to  apply 
the  knowledge  within  him ;  yet,  nevertheless,  it  rolled  in 
upon  him  in  waves  and  tides  and  always  from  the  same 
source,  from  his  past  life.  His  physical  impotence  was 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  57 

even  more  prolific  of  wisdom  than  his  financial  im 
potence  had  ever  been.  His  constitution  had  been  his 
pride  and  his  boast;  and  he  ruined  himself  when  in  such 
full  vigor  that  he  might  at  the  time  have  made  his 
living  as  a  common  laborer  if  he  had  been  an  Irishman 
or  a  negro;  the  only  common  laborers  of  his  halcyon 
days.  But  in  these  halcyon  days,  ruined  gentlemen  were 
far  removed  from  the  lot  of  a  common  laborer.  It  was 
a  poor  city  indeed,  and  New  Orleans  was  never  that, 
where  there  was  not  always  a  living  to  be  bestowed  upon 
a  man  of  proved  incapacity  to  make  one;  some  super 
numerary  living  for  a  gentleman  out  of  money;  a  place 
in  a  bank  or  a  clerkship  in  a  court  or  the  city  government ; 
a  sinecure  in  a  counting-room  or  a  political  office.  Money 
was  made  easily  then  and  it  was  lost,  also,  so  easily,  that 
the  emergency  was  provided  for  among  gentlemen  by  a 
tacit  budget. 

Unfortunately,  however,  it  is  not  every  spendthrift 
who  under  the  first  stroke  of  misfortune  becomes  wise, 
who  by  one  illumination, — to  use  the  hackneyed  illustra 
tion, — is  turned  from  a  Saul  into  a  Paul.  Wisdom  is 
generally  the  fruit  of  many  misfortunes.  And,  here 
again,  it  is  the  good  qualities  of  a  good  fellow  that  are 
turned  against  him.  The  qualities,  the  very  qualities  that 
would  have  made  him  less  agreeable  as  a  comrade,  that 
he  abhorred  in  others,  the  qualities  that  no  one  would 
think  of  cultivating  in  a  child;  a  cross  spirit,  an  un 
gracious  manner,  a  grudging  hand  in  giving,  the  very 
ability  to  say  "  no  "  to  a  friend ;  these,  Monsieur  Pinseau 
found  out  are  some  of  the  means  and  no  insignificant 
ones  to  regain  wealth.  And,  so,  he  who  could  never 
make  two  ends  meet  on  twenty  thousand  a  year  did  no 


58       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

better  on  ten,  five,  three,  two,  nor  yet  one ;  and  he  had  all 
these  chances  offered  to  him,  one  after  another.  As  he 
himself  confessed,  the  only  income  within  whose  limits 
he  could  ever  keep  was  that  of  his  daughter.  And 
strange  to  say,  the  robust  constitution  that  had  stood 
without  a  strain  all  the  excesses  of  the  moneyed  period 
began  to  weaken  and  finally  went  to  pieces  under  the 
regime  of  sober  eating  and  full  sleeping;  the  remedy 
for  most  men  had  proved  the  bane  for  this  one.  But 
still  a  berth  might  have  been  found  for  him  in  the  ship 
of  State  or  City,  for  a  man  does  not  exhaust  all  the 
opportunities  of  benevolence  in  ten  years,  had  not  the 
smoldering  war  between  the  North  and  the  South,  at 
last  broken  out. 

Of  all  his  lost  opportunities  to  be  deplored,  of  all  his 
regrets — and  he  should  have  had  of  them  more  than  the 
full  measure  of  a  man — what  Monsieur  Pinseau  most 
deplored  and  regretted  was  not  being  able  to  go  into 
the  war  and  fight.  He,  who  erstwhile  had  braved  every 
risk  of  weather  and  accident  in  hunting  and  fishing  on 
the  lakes  around  New  Orleans;  he,  who  could  no  more 
fly  a  danger  than  a  temptation;  for  whom,  camp  life, 
camp  stories  and  the  wild  rush  of  a  charge  seemed 
specially  intended;  when  the  great  opportunity  of  his 
life  came,  he  was  crippled  in  his  feet  by  gout,  all  but 
palsied  in  his  hands,  and  short  winded  with  asthma. 
If  the  war  and  the  ruin  of  his  country  had  come  ten 
years  earlier  it  would  have  found  him  a  man  and  not 
an  old  woman  of  sixty;  bundled  in  flannels  and  coddled 
with  tisanes. 

Then  at  last,  when  he  could  not  work,  he  saw  that  he 
might  have  worked  once.  Then  he  watched  and  strug- 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  59 

gled,  as  one  in  mid-ocean  watches  and  struggles,  for  a 
floating  spar,  for  something,  anything,  to  do  to  earn  a 
living.  "  Autre  temps,  autre  guitarres!"  He  found 
that  the  prerogatives  of  birth  (or  berths)  were  abolished 
with  slavery,  and  the  thing  called  business  competition 
had  taken  their  place ;  and  that  this  was  a  foot  race  where 
the  prize  goes  not  to  past  good  qualities  but  to  the  fleetest 
of  foot  and  soundest  of  wind — with  no  quarter  shown 
to  the  defeated.  Business  is  hell  as  well  as  war  to  those 
who  wish  to  make  it  so — it  is  only  a  question  of  the 
disposition  of  the  commander.  All  of  this  in  Monsieur 
Pinseau's  life  and  in  Mademoiselle  Mimi's  confession 
furnished  some  of  the  theories  of  art  advanced  in  Pere 
Phileas's  sermons. 

The  home  of  the  Pinseaus  was  a  long  cabin  almost 
resting  on  the  ground  with  a  wide  gallery  in  front  over 
which  hung  the  eaves  of  a  pointed  roof,  alive  with  mosses 
and  creepers.  One  would  have  said  that  its  back  was 
built  against  the  side  of  the  church,  if  it  were  not  obvious 
that  the  church,  on  the  contrary,  as  the  newer  construc 
tion  had  been  built  against  it.  It  might  have  faced  a 
street,  if  it  had  not  antedated  all  streets  in  St.  Medard 
by  half  a  century.  As  it  was,  its  end  was  turned  to  the 
street,  while  its  front  looked  vaguely  in  the  direction 
where  once,  in  its  power  and  grandeur,  stood  the  master's 
dwelling.  A  native  of  the  place  would  have  recognized 
it  at  once  as  one  of  the  dependencies  of  the  old  time, 
built  for  the  accommodation  of  some  of  the  numerous 
attendants  that  then  accompanied  a  family  establishment 
of  any  pretensions;  an  overseer's  house,  or  a  gardener's 
lodge,  or  the  cabin  of  a  favorite  slave.  It  was  cut  off  by 
the  street  now  and  separated  from  its  seigniory,  which 


60       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

shorn  of  all  its  appanages  and  reduced  in  territory  to  its 
surrounding  garden  and  hedge  could  be  seen  forlorn  and 
estranged  in  the  distance. 

An  old  pieux  or  picket  fence  inclosed  the  cabin  still, 
guarding  it  as  jealously  from  the  outside  world  as  in  the 
time  when  bulldogs  added  to  the  strength  of  its  defense. 
But  the  aged  timbers  were  tottering  beneath  the  vines  for 
which  it  served  as  a  trellis,  and  it  bulged  from  the  pressure 
of  the  Yuccas  inside  with  their  ungainly  bulk  of  dagger- 
shaped  leaves  against  it.  The  gate,  of  more  modern 
date,  was  of  smooth  plank  which  in  its  best  days  had 
been  painted  green.  Over  it  rose  an  arch,  twined  with 
wistaria  and  honeysuckle. 

Mademoiselle  Mimi  lifted  the  latch  and  hurried 
through,  a  cartload  of  news  within  her.  News!  They, 
who  know  what  it  is  to  live  year  in  and  year  out  with 
no  more  news  than  the  calendar  furnishes,  know  what 
a  godsend  she  felt  she  was  bringing  to  her  Papa. 

He  was  seated  on  the  gallery  in  his  old  cane-bottomed 
chair  with  his  old  hunting  dog  Belle  at  his  feet,  just  as 
she  had  left  him  an  hour  ago.  A  very  good-looking  old 
gentleman  he  was;  with  his  short  white  hair  and  white 
mustache,  and  his  blue  eyes,  never  without  a  twinkle 
in  them,  and  his  humorous  mouth,  seldom  without  a  smile 
on  its  lips.  His  face  was  as  handsome  as  his  daughter's 
was  otherwise,  and  his  figure,  though  somewhat  thickened 
by  age  and  an  inert  life,  showed  still  what  it  must  have 
been  in  its  athletic,  graceful  youth.  He  wore  an  old, 
faded,  brown  velveteen  coat  with  deep  pockets  in  the 
sides,  a  relic  from  the  heroic  period  of  his  hunting  days; 
and  his  linen,  which  was  really  linen,  showed  that  it  came 
also  from  a  distant  past,  being  fine  pleated,  with  a  collar 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  61 

of  its  own,  a  broad  rolling  one  tied  up  with  a  careless- 
looking  old  scarf.  His  expression,  as  he  sat  there  all 
alone,  was  so  free,  frank,  and  natural  that  a  stranger  on 
seeing  him  indubitably  would  have  said :  "  Here  is  an 
old  gentleman  with  an  agreeable  past  behind  him,  a 
serene  future  before  him  and  a  benign  conscience  within 
him;  he  looks  as  if  he  had  done  nothing  but  make  a 
pretty  garden  all  his  life." 

It  was  a  pretty  garden,  the  one  he  had  made  and  was 
now  looking  upon.  There  was  not  a  foot  in  it  that  had 
not  been  turned  to  account  and  there  was  an  air  of  un- 
trammeled  grace  about  it  that  made  one  think  of  Nature, 
rather  than  of  an  old  gentleman,  as  its  author.  It  was,  in 
truth,  what  the  old-fashioned  "  keepsake  "  of  a  romantic 
era  so  poetically  purported  to  be :  a  garden  of  senti 
ments.  Monsieur  Pinseau's  eye,  roaming  over  it,  hardly 
missed  a  flower  that  he  loved,  a  shrub  that  he  cared  for : 
japonica,  mimosa,  sweet  olive,  Magnolia  fuscata,  pome 
granate,  for  the  sake  of  the  rich  scarlet  blossoms  that 
pretty  Creole  girls  used  to  wear  in  their  black  hair,  (the 
ground  under  the  bush  was  red  with  them  now,  for  the 
pomegranate  flower  does  not  fade  on  the  stem  but  falls 
in  its  full  beauty)  .  .  .  sweet  shrub,  oleanders,  white 
and  pink,  and,  fair  to  look  upon  when  the  sun  first  touches 
them  in  the  morning,  rose  geraniums,  citronelle,  crape 
myrtles,  rose  colored  and  white,  (their  bloom  as  dainty 
and  fragile  as  the  ball  dresses  of  the  pretty  dancing 
Creole  girls  of  Monsieur  Pinseau's  dancing  days)  .  .  . 
\fasmin;  the  "  Night,"  of  course,  hidden  in  corners, 
whence  its  mysterious  sweetness  steals  upon  the  soft 
Summer  air  of  moon-lit  nights;  the  Spanish,  the  star, 
and  the  beautiful  wild  creeper,  that  twines  around  the 


62       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

great  forest  trees,  and  droops  down  to  the  clear  water 
of  the  still  bayous — bayous  that  Monsieur  Pinseau  used  to 
wander  under  when  spring  flowered  in  the  woods  around 
the  city  and  in  himself — latana,  purple  and  yellow, 
though  most  people  despise  it.  And  of  roses — all  kinds : 
the  great  Reine,  for  its  generous  fragrance,  .  .  .  the 
The  for  its  romantic  loveliness;  the  Provence,  for  its 
air  of  innocence;  the  Lamarque,  to  embower  his  gallery; 
the  Geant  de  Bataille,  for  its  name ;  the  minute  Picayune, 
out  of  memory  of  his  mother's  garden ;  there  were  violets, 
for  another  memory,  and  mignonette,  to  remind  him  of 
Paris,  helas!  .  .  .  But  no  fish  geraniums  were  to  be 
seen  anywhere;  nor  prince's  feather,  that  favorite  of 
his  Gascon  neighbors;  nor  lilies,  neither  Joseph  nor 
Easter  because  of  their  air  of  piety  (or  his  wife's)  ; 
no  immortelles  with  their  discomforting  suggestions; 
no  pansies,  or  pensees,  as  they  are  called  in  St. 
Medard,  no  indeed!  for  in  his  garden,  as  in  his  life, 
Monsieur  Pinseau  indulged  his  prejudices  as  far  as 
possible. 

Out  of  sight  and  as  far  back  as  possible,  lay  Mademoi 
selle  Mimi's  plat,  the  plat  of  the  Christian  virtues  as  her 
father  called  it ;  where  grew  medicinal  herbs  and  season 
ings:  rosemary,  balm,  sage,  thyme,  mint,  horehound, 
absinthe,  melisse,  parsley,  anise,  .  .  .  with  catnip, 
naturally,  for  the  babies;  Mademoiselle  Mimi's  heart 
itself  was  not  more  prolific  of  virtues. 

The  spot  was  as  bare  as  a  chicken  yard  when  Monsieur 
Pinseau  moved  to  it,  and  seeing  all  that  had  been  accom 
plished  in  it  by  one  unassisted  pair  of  maimed  hands  and 
halt  feet  under  no  other  inspiration  than  poverty  and 
misfortune,  surely  it  might  well  be  set  (by  the  recording 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  63 

angel)  against  some  of  the  other  sowings  and  plantings 
of  the  old  gardener's  life  in  the  period  of  other  activities 
and  inspirations. 

When  Mademoiselle  Mimi  had  anything  to  say,  she 
did  not  wait  for  the  formality  of  an  inquiry;  and  when 
she  began,  she  talked  as  easily  and  naturally  as  the  rain 
rained.  But  the  rain  itself  would  have  found  it  difficult 
to  keep  up  its  supply  of  drops  from  so  barren  a  source  of 
moisture  as  St.  Medard  was  of  news.  Nevertheless, 
when  did  she  ever  come  in  from  the  street  without  some 
interesting  report?  She  herself,  it  is  true,  alone  knew 
the  twisting  and  turning  and  seasoning  she  had  to  give 
to  the  poor  little  bits  of  hearsay  gossip  in  order  to 
convert  them  into  any  semblance  of  appetizing  novelty. 
Less  ingenuity  would  be  required  for  the  daily  feuilleton 
of  a  Paris  journal.  But,  today,  for  once  she  could  rain 
down  the  tale  as  she  had  gathered  it. 

After  repeating  what  we  know,  she  added :  "  Madame 
Talbot  has  very  exalted  ideas  about  education,  which 
come  from  her  husband,  a  very  exalted  personage  indeed, 
it  seems.  It  was  '  my  husband  says  this,  my  husband 
says  that '  all  the  time.  He  desires  nothing  less  than 
perfection  in  his  daughters,  and  they  are  to  be  trained 
simply  for  that.  Eh !  Mon  Dieu ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"How  is  it,  Thou  canst  keep  parents  so  nai've?" 

Monsieur  Pinseau  listened  apparently  as  usual,  with 
his  eyes  running  over  his  beloved  garden,  noting  what 
was  to  be  done  tomorrow  in  it.  But  what  he  was  think 
ing  during  his  daughter's  relation  was  something  like 
this :  "  What  a  miserable  little  world,  or  rather,  what 
a  miserable  little  city  this  is!  Even  when  we  get  away 
from  the  old  places,  we  are  always  coming  upon  the 


64       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

same  people.  If  the  good  God  would  only  let  us  do 
occasionally  what  we  please!  When  we  need  Him  and 
invoke  Him  He  has  no  difficulty  in  letting  us  alone,  and 
yet  He  is  always  intruding  upon  us  when  we  do  not 
need  Him,  when  we  want  to  be  let  alone." 

He  determined  to  read  Voltaire  at  once.  Whenever 
he  felt  this  way  he  read  Voltaire;  he  had  a  complete 
set,  the  entire  seventy  volumes,  bought  in  Paris  when 
he  was  twenty  years  old  and  equipping  himself  for  life. 
All  young  men  of  his  age  at  that  date  equipped  them 
selves  for  life  in  Paris,  with,  among  other  things,  a  full 
set  of  Voltaire,  bound  in  calf,  the  handsome  edition. 

In  Voltaire,  he  felt  he  would  find  some  solace  for  the 
contre  temps  before  him.  "  The  reason,"  he  continued 
thinking,  "  that  we  succeed  so  well  when  we  are  young, 
is  that  no  one  knows  us.  We  can  make  what  pretensions 
we  please,  who  is  there  to  contradict  us?  Our  parents 
are  only  too  glad  to  cultivate  their  own  vanity  in  us, 
and  would  without  hesitation  kick  out  any  servant  or 
teacher  that  would  try  to  enlighten  them.  The  greatest 
fools  I  have  known  in  my  life  started  out  as  clever 
children,  and  those  who  I  thought  were  the  greatest  fools 
in  my  young  days,  they  turned  out  to  be  men  of  sense." 
This  was  indeed  a  somber  reflection  to  him,  for  no  one 
could  start  in  life  with  a  greater  reputation  for  cleverness 
than  he  achieved  as  a  child ;  to  the  admiration  and  adora 
tion  of  parents  and  servants.  "  Providence,"  he  pursued, 
"  treats  us  like  idiots.  I  come  down  here  in  this 
miserable  hole  to  lose  myself;  who  but  a  God-forsaken 
creature  like  myself  or  a  Gascon,  or  people  who  could 
not  get  away  from  here  would  live  here?"  a  satirical 
twitch  of  the  lip  accompanied  his  reflective  look  into  the 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  65 

garden.  "  Whig  and  Democrat,  Democrat  and  Whig, 
what  the  devil  does  it  matter  now?  I  feel  like  my  old 
Aunt  Ahgele  when  she  was  dying  and  some  one  came 
and  told  her  that  her  American  son-in-law  was  going  to 
make  Protestants  of  her  grandchildren ;  '  My  friend/  she 
whispered,  '  I  am  near  enough  to  death  to  see  now  how 
silly  all  that  is.'  And  she  had  been  fighting  Protestants 
all  her  life.  If  we  could  only  pass  an  act  of  oblivion 
against  our  memory  when  we  get  old ! "  .  .  .He 
might  just  as  well  wish  for  an  act  of  oblivion  against 
Belle's  fleas.  "  What  asses  men  can  make  of  them 
selves  in  politics !  As  if  they  needed  any  extra  occasion 
for  the  purpose !  I  had  to  turn  politician  and  go  around 
playing  the  fool,  making  speeches.  I,  who  never  could 
make  a  speech  in  my  life ;  insulting  people,  fighting  duels, 
carrying  torch  lights,  walking  in  processions,  shouting, 
hurrahing,  for  Fildepeau,  and  against  this  man  Talbot, 
denouncing  Talbot  in  all  times  and  places,  as  I  would 
denounce  a  parricide,  spending  my  money  to  defeat  him 
as  if  that  were  the  greatest  pleasure  my  money  could 
buy."  No  wonder  Monsieur  Pinseau  hated  the  flower 
that  was  named  for  thought !  .  .  .  "  Well,  we  did 
defeat  him.  Talbot  was  beaten  and  Fildepeau  was 
elected,  and  Fildepeau  turned  out  to  be  the  rascal.  He 
is  now  living  in  France  on  the  plunder  he  picked  up  in 
politics,  and  Talbot  was  the  honest  man.  And  what 
did  Talbot  want,  in  the  name  of  politics,  to  be  elected  to 
the  legislature  for?  To  have  some  law  passed  for  the 
improvement  of  our  criminal  courts !  And  Fildepeau,  he 
wanted  to  get  there  to  push  the  rascality  he  was 
interested  in.  Fildepeau  I  shall  never  see  again,  but 
Talbot  comes  down  here  to  live  alongside  me.  Every- 


66       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

body  else  gets  killed  in  the  war,  but  Talbot  survives. 
.  .  .  And  Talbot,  unlike  the  elegant,  the  courtly,  the 
patriotic  Fildepeau,  does  not  forget."  .  .  . 

Sad  as  the  fact  may  be  to  women,  it  was  not  peculiar 
to  Monsieur  Pinseau,  as  other  gentlemen  can  testify,  that 
the  nearest  thing  to  remorse  that  troubled  him  in  the 
haven  of  old  age  came  not  from  his  domestic  but  from 
his  political  mistakes.  And  this  episode,  in  which  he 
saw  himself  working  for  Fildepeau,  making  speeches, 
walking  in  processions,  and  "  electioneering,"  as  buying 
votes  was  then  called,  was  one  of  which  he  was  ashamed 
enough  to  blush  over,  even  now  when  any  blushing  was 
out  of  season  for  him.  So  instead  of  listening  further  to 
his  daughter,  he  rose  abruptly  from  his  chair  and  hobbled 
into  the  garden;  as  if,  suddenly,  he  saw  something  amiss 
there;  his  old  dog  Belle  as  stiffly  followed  him  and 
Mademoiselle  Mimi  went  into  the  house. 

It  was  not  here  as  in  the  home  she  had  just  left.  Ruin 
having  come  here  in  the  form  of  bankruptcy  had  stopped 
short  of  destitution.  The  Pinseaus  had  emigrated  into 
poverty,  so  to  speak,  and  had  carried  some  luggage  with 
them.  For  in  the  first  room  Mademoiselle  Mimi  entered, 
a  low  one  with  whitewashed  walls  and  one  small 
window,  were  to  be  found  a  sofa  and  some  rosewood 
chairs  covered  with  faded  blue  and  yellow  silk  that  had 
once  stood  in  her  mother's  grand  salon ;  and  a  gilt-framed 
oval  mirror  and  its  ornaments  on  the  little  black  wooden 
mantel.  An  old  velvet  carpet  covered  the  rough  plank 
floor  and  the  remnant  of  a  fine  lace  curtain  hung  over 
the  little  window.  In  the  next  room  were  the  mahogany 
table  and  chairs  and,  filling  one  wall,  the  sideboard  with 
some  cut  glass  from  the  old  dining-room.  Then  fol- 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  67 

lowed  Mademoiselle  Mimi's  bedroom,  where,  as  in  a  cell, 
stood  the  great  four-posted  bedstead  of  her  mother, 
without  its  tester — the  pompous  tester  of  rose-colored 
satin  and  rich  pendent  cords  and  tassels  that  had  reared 
itself  so  haughtily  of  old,  under  the  high  ceilings  of 
wealth  and  pride.  In  the  next  room ;  a  startling  contrast, 
was  the  small  wooden  cot  and  the  plain  chairs  and  table 
that  Monsieur  Pinseau  had  affected  in  his  gilded  youthful 
days,  when  hardihood,  and  defiance  of  soft  ease,  were 
his  theme  and  profession ;  following  the  piquant  example 
of  royalty  and  other  sybarites  of  his  day. 

The  last  room  in  the  row  was  the  kitchen,  and  here 
also  stood  an  old  piece  of  furniture  from  a  former  estate 
and  a  former  day:  the  old  negress  Aglone.  Bowed, 
wrinkled,  a  mere  handful  of  bones  in  a  loose  skin,  her 
clothes  hung  over  her  body  like  rags  on  a  scarecrow, 
her  headkerchief  toppled  on  one  side,  her  eyes  were 
bleared;  her  mouth,  toothless.  She  did  not  show  her 
history,  and  it  had  been  a  fine  one. 

Among  the  masters  and  mistresses  of  New  Orleans  it 
was  a  general  belief  that  every  slave  who  became  the 
mother  of  thirteen  children  purchased,  with  the  birth 
of  her  thirteenth  child,  its  freedom  and  her  own.  When 
Aglone  bore  triumphantly  her  thirteenth  child  she  was 
still  young,  fresh  and  good-looking,  for  she  was  but 
fifteen  when  her  first  child  was  born.  But  she  bargained 
with  her  master  to  give  the  freedom  she  had  earned  to 
her  eldest  child — a  boy — which  was  done;  and  accord 
ing  to  the  law,  a  piece  of  property  was  placed  in  trust 
for  him  as  a  home,  and  he  was  apprenticed  to  the 
carpenter's  trade;  and  did  well  in  it  as  youth  and  man. 
When  ruin  came  to  her  master,  Aglone  refused  the  choice 


68       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

of  being  sold  with  her  family  in  order  to  remain  with 
him  and  his  family.  When  again  emancipation  came 
and  all  slaves  were  freed,  Aglone  stood  to  her  bargain. 
She  would  not  accept  the  freedom  she  had  refused  from 
her  master,  as  a  gift  from  "  strangers,"  as  she  called 
them;  and  given  to  good  and  bad  alike.  It  was  owing 
to  this  obstinacy  of  the  old  woman  that  Mademoiselle 
Mimi  and  her  father  had  a  servant  to  follow  them  in 
their  emigration  and  that  old  Aglone  still  had  a  home 
and  a  family.  For  her  large  brood  had  scattered.  Free 
dom  had  loosed  not  merely  the  shackles  but  all  ties  and 
children ;  grandchildren,  great-grandchildren  were  all  out 
of  her  life  now;  each  working  in  separate  capacity  for 
separate  aims. 

She  had  become  very  childish,  often  mistook  Mimi 
for  her  grandmother;  the  young  mistress  for  whom  she 
had  been  bought  when  both  were  children ;  and  often  she 
would  call  her  master  "  Amedee  "  or  "  Dede  "  as  if  he 
were  still  a  little  boy.  When  Mademoiselle  Mimi  entered 
the  kitchen,  Aglone  was  grumbling  as  usual,  in  her  creole 
patois,  complaining  about  Monsieur  Pinseau.  "  Amedee 
bothers  me  all  the  time,  he  is  always  coming  into  the 
kitchen,  he  tells  me  how  to  do  this,  how  to  do  that ;  but 
who  is  the  cook?  If  I  am  the  cook  I  must  do  my  own 
way.  Why  doesn't  he  keep  in  his  garden  and  bother  with 
his  plants  ?  I  don't  want  children  in  my  kitchen,  '  Vieu- 
Maitre '  always  made  the  children  keep  out  of  my  kitchen 
.  .  .  they  bother  me  too  much  .  .  .  Dede  tell  me  how 
to  cook!  No!  I  will  not  do  what  he  says,  I  have  been 
cooking  since  before  he  was  born.  What  does  he  know 
about  cooking  ?  Ha !  he  did  not  do  that  in  the  old  gentle 
man's  time !  The  old  gentleman  knew  how  to  make  him 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  69 

behave !  The  old  gentleman  did  not  spoil  him,  ha !  The 
old  gentleman  knew  I  was  a  cook  ...  he  taught  me 
himself,  ha!  and  he  paid  Larose  to  come  and  teach  me 
.  .  .  gave  him  five  dollars  just  to  show  me  how  to  make 
a  galantine.  .  .  .  You  could  not  tell  my  galantines 
from  the  galantines  in  the  fine  restaurants  and  my 
fricassee  of  turtle!  He,  the  old  gentleman,  knew  what 
good  cooking  was.  They  don't  know  what  good  cooking 
is  now  .  .  .  they  eat  things  now  that  a  cook  would 
have  been  sent  to  the  calaboose  for  in  old  times.  Ha! 
the  old  gentleman  never  came  into  my  kitchen,  he  would 
send  for  me  and  he  would  say  *  Aglone  do  this,  Aglone 
do  that/ and  that  was  all  ..." 

The  poor  old  thing's  head  shook,  her  hands  trembled, 
her  voice  whined  shrilly.  She  could  not  stand  agitation 
any  longer,  she  was  always  slightly  demented  by  it.  And 
poor  Mademoiselle  Mimi,  she  suffered  too.  It  seemed 
hard  to  her  that  she  could  never  leave  the  house  without 
finding  some  trouble  on  her  return;  always  some  dis 
agreement,  some  dispute  and  old  Aglone's  feelings  hurt. 
She  had  but  one  course  of  reasoning  in  the  matter: 
"  If  Papa  would  only  attend  to  his  garden  and  leave  other 
people's  affairs  alone!  I  can  manage  old  Aglone  so 
well;  but  he,  he  teases  her,  he  puts  her  in  a  temper. 
He  is  too  meddlesome,  that  is  the  truth."  And  she 
bitterly  reflected,  how  in  books,  ladies  and  gentlemen 
going  into  poverty  leave  all  their  faults  behind  them  and 
take  only  their  virtues  with  them ;  at  least  so  far  as  she 
could  judge  from  the  "  Lives  of  the  Saints,"  the  only 
book  she  ever  had  time  to  read.  But  not  so  her  father, 
he  went  into  his  place  of  punishment  for  past  folly, 
without  a  single  renunciation — in  fact  with  all  the  honors 


70       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

of  war  in  his  defeat,  with  his  colors  flying.  How  much 
easier  would  have  been  her  lot  had  it  been  otherwise. 
If  in  all  these  trying  experiences,  he  could  have  imitated 
some  of  those  poor  saints  and  martyrs,  that  he  looked 
down  upon.  The  rich,  she  admitted,  might  have  what 
tempers  they  pleased ;  their  money,  there  was  no  denying 
it,  bought  them  indulgence.  But  the  poor,  the  poor  must, 
no  other  word  is  possible,  the  poor  must  be  patient,  good, 
gentle,  forbearing,  self-denying,  long  suffering,  spiritual, 
meek,  etc.,  etc. ;  not  captious  about  seasonings,  truculent 
over  gombos  and  grillades,  sensitive  as  to  the  color  of  a 
roux.  "  After  all/*  she  would  commune  listlessly  with 
herself,  going  a  little  aside  from  the  point  of  her  argu 
ment,  "  what  is  sent  to  us  to  bear  even  in  the  hardest 
lives?  Disease,  misfortune,  death,  privations!  I  am 
not  a  saint,  and  have  I  not  stood  all  that,  and  a  sad 
childhood  in  addition  which  Papa  certainly  never  had  to 
stand?  But,  what  of  it?  What  is  there  in  it  all 
that  cannot  be  borne?  Nothing!  Nothing!  Absolutely 
nothing!  But  the  truth  is,  we  do  not  seem  to  be  made 
in  the  proper  way  to  support  the  very  misfortunes  that 
God  himself  (who  knows  all  about  us,  what  we  can 
stand  and  what  not)  sends."  And  she  would  sigh,  and 
as  her  father  invoked  Voltaire,  she,  in  certain  moments 
would  invoke  a  certain  rebellious  thought  of  her  own: 
"  How  easy  it  would  have  been  for  God  to  have  made 
every  one  good  at  once  ?  Then  there  would  be  no  more 
trouble  for  us!  We  could  then  all  lead  the  lives  He 
gives  us  and  not  mind  it.  But  as  it  is,  He  has  arranged 
it  so,  that  we  fit  in  our  lives  like  big  feet  in  little  shoes 
or  little  feet  in  big  shoes  and  our  tempers  are  as 
agreeable  as  colors  that  swear  at  each  other.  Aglone  is 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  71 

obstinate,  cross  an4  forgetful,  that  is  the  fact  of  it. 
She  has  almost  forgotten  how  to  cook,  and  Papa,  Papa, 
of  course  has  not  forgotten  what  good  cooking  is  ... 
and  good  Heavens!  He  has  few  enough  pleasures  now 
and  he  might  at  least  have  his  poor  food  cooked  in  the 
way  he  likes.  Of  course  it  would  be  better  if  he  were 
like  Pere  Phileas ;  but  Pere  Phileas  was  a  rude  peasant, 
what  can  he  know  about  good  cooking?  He  eats  only 
to  satisfy  his  hunger,  he  knows  no  more  about  good 
cooking  than  he  knows  about  good  music.  Ah,  if  Papa, 
would  only  grow  indifferent  to  his  tastes,  become  re 
ligious,  ascetic,  as  some  people  do  when  they  grow  old !  " 
But  there  was  no  hope  for  this,  as  her  good  sense 
warned  her.  Monsieur  Pinseau  would  never  gratify  her 
by  a  growth  in  this  direction.  No!  On  the  contrary,  he 
would  continue  to  torment  old  Aglone  and  worry  her 
about  a  salmi  or  a  sauce  as  if  St.  Medard  were  as  far 
from  him  as  St.  Peter,  and  Pere  Phileas  as  the  Pope. 
Old  Aglone  was  very  devout;  and  the  only  way  to  get 
around  her  obstinacy  about  her  cooking  and  turn  her 
from  her  distress  was  to  lure  her  away  from  the  present, 
and  this  could  always  be  done  by  talking  to  her  of  the 
church,  recommending  some  new  saint  or  prayer  or 
scapulary  to  her.  She  confessed  every  Saturday  of  her 
life  and  took  the  communion  every  Sunday :  a  pure  kind 
ness,  this  was,  on  the  part  of  Pere  Phileas,  which  how 
ever  Aglone  repaid  by  scrubbing  the  church.  No  one  to 
see  her,  so  old,  so  decrepit,  would  imagine  she  could 
go  over  that  church  upon  her  knees,  scrubbing-brush  in 
hand,  rain  or  shine,  hot  or  cpld,  once  a  week.  But  she 
did  it,  mumbling  her  prayers  all  the  time,  casting  her  eyes 
first  up  to  the  statue  of  the  Virgin,  then  down  to  her 


72       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

soft  soap  and  red  brick.  As  with  her  father  Mademoi 
selle  Mimi  always  took  the  part  of  Aglone,  so  with 
Aglone,  she  took  the  part  of  her  father.  What  she  called 
the  thought  in  the  back  of  her  head  she  kept  to  herself. 
"  Poor  Papa,"  she  would  say  to  the  old  negress,  "  you 
must  remember  he  is  a  sick  man  and  all  the  trouble  he 
has  had  in  his  life.  And  you  know  how  good-hearted 
he  is!  He  would  take  the  coat  off  his  back  and  give  it 
to  you  if  he  thought  you  needed  it;  and  after  all,  all 
that  he  asks  is  a  little  more  pepper  or  a  little  less  salt, 
or  the  garlic,  or  the  onion,  or  the  bay  leaf  put  in,  in  a 
different  way.  He  may  be  wrong,  but  if  he  wishes  it? 
My  Heavens !  all  that  seems  so  little  to  ask !  If  he  wanted 
me  to  put  molasses  in  the  gombo,  I  would  do  it;  if  it 
gave  him  pleasure,  I  wouldn't  mind.  And  what  dif 
ference  after  all  does  it  make  to  you?  I  should  not 
think  you  would  care,  so  long  as  you  go  to  church  and 
do  your  duties  there.  What  would  the  blessed  Virgin 
say  if  some  one  should  say  to  her :  *  You  see  that  old 
Aglone  down  there,  that  good  woman  who  never  forgets 
her  duties  to  the  church,  who  is  always  ready  to  make 
soup  for  the  sick,  chicken  or  beef — no  matter  which — 
who  rises  before  day  and  stays  up  till  after  midnight 
to  do  her  work,  who  scrubs  the  church  out  once  a  week 
on  her  knees  although  her  old  legs  are  as  stiff  as  broom 
sticks  with  rheumatism  .  .  .  well,  she  does  all  that, 
and  then  she  refuses  stubbornly  to  do  what  her  old  master 
asks  her  about  gombo  and  grillade;  her  master  that  she 
nursed  as  a  little  baby  and  spoiled  too/  Oh !  you  know 
it!  So  that  he  would  run  away  to  you  from  his  own 
nurse  Laloute,  who  tried  to  kill  you  once,  you  know,  just 
from  jealousy  over  that.  You  know  that  yourself ! 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  73 

And  who  was  it,  eh?  Who  nursed  you  when  you  were 
so  sick  three  years  ago?  Who  used  to  get  up  in  the 
night  and  go  to  you,  and  give  you  foot  baths  with  his 
own  hands  and  made  poultices  for  you  and  put  them 
on,  and  give  you  tisanes,  and  would  not  wake  me  or 
call  me  when  I  did  not  hear?  Who  sat  by  your  bed  all 
day  keeping  the  flies  and  mosquitoes  off  you?  You  did 
not  think  of  gombos  and  grillades  then,  you  thought  you 
were  going  to  die,  and  you  were  glad  enough  to  have 
him  by  you !  And  now  you  cannot  do  what  he  asks  you, 
some  little  thing,  I  don't  know  what,  about  parsley  or 
onions,  nonsense  like  that!  And  when  I  come  home 
and  see  you  bothered,  and  hear  you  grumbling;  all  my 
pleasure  is  destroyed.  And  what  pleasure  have  I  but 
my  comfort  here  and  you,  and  Papa?"  and  so  on  and 
on  ran  the  little  discourse. 

The  old  woman  would  listen,  charmed  by  that  low 
sweet  voice,  her  hands  would  quiet  down  from  their 
trembling,  her  head  stop  shaking;  while  talking 
Mademoiselle  Mimi  would  go  around  the  kitchen,  putting 
one  thing  and  another  in  its  place,  peering  into  pots, 
pans,  buckets,  and  jars,  tasting  here  and  there,  to  see 
what  the  old  thing  had  forgotten  or  overlooked,  for  she 
was  as  blind  as  she  was  forgetful. 

And  then  Mademoiselle  Mimi  would  go  and  talk  to 
her  father  while  he  smoked  his  pipe  in  apparent  indif 
ference.  The  pipe  too,  belonged  to  the  velveteen  jacket 
days  and  the  rough  life  of  the  hunter. 

"  Poor  old  thing !  She  tries  her  best,  but  she  is  failing ; 
she  forgets,  and  pretends  that  she  does  intentionally  what 
happens.  She  is  ashamed  to  confess  that  she  is  not  as 
good  a  cook  as  she  used  to  be.  Sometimes  when  I  peep 


74       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

into  the  kitchen  I  see  her  wiping  the  tears  from  her 
poor  old  face.  ...  It  is  hard  to  live  only  to  please 
and  then  not  succeed.  And  what  is  there  in  her  poor 
old  soul  for  consolation?  And  when  I  think  what  we 
would  be  without  her,  and  what  we  would  have  done  all 
these  years  without  her,  I  am  willing  to  stand  her  faults 
which  are  only  the  failings  of  old  age,  and  so,  faults 
that  we  are  all  liable  to.  Suppose  she  were  not  here,  and 
that  we  had  to  get  in  somebody  else!  You  know  how 
pleasant  that  would  be!  You  see  what  the  negroes 
have  become,  what  they  are  about  us.  I  would  rather 
do  my  own  work  than  have  one  of  them;  dirty,  lazy, 
thievish,  ignorant,  insolent,  they  are  not  fit  to  be  servants, 
they  are  not  fit  to  be  even  slaves  now.  Ah !  There  will 
not  be  any  more  hereafter  like  Aglone.  I  should  think 
the  saints  in  heaven  would  like  to  look  down  upon  her 
.  .  .  she  is  a  saint  too  in  her  way !  Up  before  daylight 
to  make  our  coffee,  and  you  must  acknowledge  there  is 
no  one  in  New  Orleans  can  make  coffee  like  her,  and 
out  of  so  little  and  that  of  the  cheapest  quality — the 
quality  that  once  we  would  have  been  ashamed  to  give 
to  our  negroes.  And  she  is  past  eighty ;  just  think !  She 
was  bought  in  the  time  of  the  Spaniards  and  was  a 
grown  woman  working  for  us  at  the  time  of  the  battle 
of  New  Orleans.  Don't  you  remember,  how  Mere  used 
to  tell  us  of  her  making  coffee  then  all  night  long,  to  send 
down  to  the  battlefield?  Working  for  us  then,  she  has 
been  working  for  us  ever  since.  And  she  would  not  take 
her  freedom  when  it  was  offered  to  her,  but  gave  it  to 
that  selfish  Alcibiade,  and  refused  to  be  sold,  when  she 
could  have  been  sold  with  her  family !  And  old  and  blind 
as  she  is  now,  who  can  market  as  she  does?  She  makes 


MADEMOISELLE  MIMI  75 

twenty-five  cents  go  as  far  as  a  dollar  used  to  go,  you 
say  that  yourself.  I  don't  know  how  she  does  it.  She 
is  more  careful  of  our  little  money  than  I  am,  and  in 
her  heart,  she  is  devoted  to  you,  she  adores  you,  there 
is  nothing  in  the  world  she  would  not  do  for  you,  I 
believe  it  would  break  her  heart  if  any  one  else  carried 
you  your  cup  of  morning  coffee.  And  you  remember 
what  a  tragedy  it  was  last  year  when  I  hired  some  one 
else  to  iron  your  shirts,  because  her  poor  old  eyes  could 
not  see  well  enough  to  iron  them?  When  I  had  to  call 
in  Pere  Phileas  to  talk  religion  to  her  ?  But  I  know  she 
is  old  and  very  trying;  I  have  to  coax  and  pet  her  all 
the  time,  my  poor  old  Aglone !  She  is  too  old  to  work, 
she  ought  not  to  be  working.  Some  of  her  children  or 
grandchildren  ought  to  support  her.  They  are  free  now, 
nothing  prevents  them.  But,  in  truth  she  has  lived  too 
long  with  whites,  and  she  could  not  now  live  with  negroes 
any  more  than  I  could.  Her  place  is  with  us  after  all. 
I  beg  Pere  Phileas  not  to  let  her  bother  him;  but  you 
know  how  he  is.  He  says  that  the  church  is  her  only 
light  in  her  darkness.  He  is  right,  I  would  do  as  he 
does,  I  would  not  diminish  any  light  she  has.  On  the 
contrary,  I  would  give  her  more  of  it  if  possible.  As 
for  me,  I  would  like  her  to  think  that  God  and  all  his 
angels  are  always  delighted  with  her;  or  anything  else 
she  chooses  to  think  about  them  to  give  herself  comfort. 
I  am  afraid  I  should  not  care  so  much  for  them  as  she 
does,  if  I  had  her  life.  If  I  were  God,  I  never  would 
have  created  negroes;  I  would  have  everybody  white, 
and  rich  besides;  and  good,  even  if  the  virtue  of  resigna 
tion  should  die  out  of  the  world  in  consequence." 

And  the  old  gentleman,  although  he  did  smoke  his 


76        THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

pipe  in  apparent  indifference,  listened  to  her  words,  no 
matter  how  often  they  were  repeated,  as  if  he  too,  like 
Aglone,  were  charmed;  as  if  they  were  an  old  faint 
perfume,  or  an  air  from  an  old  song.  The  humorous 
twinkle  would  go  out  of  his  eyes,  and  his  hands  would 
softly  pinch  Belle's  ears.  His  wife  had  never  found  it 
out,  but  his  daughter  had,  that  he  was  very  soft-hearted. 
But  he,  nevertheless,  would  be  just  as  cross  at  dinner 
when  Aglone  would  bring  in  some  mishap  of  seasoning 
which  she,  in  spite  of  the  charming  she  had  received,  was 
as  apt  as  not  to  do. 

In  short,  the  only  way  to  have  the  seasoning  right  and 
the  dinner  as  it  should  be  and  so  avoid  disagreeable  con 
sequences  was  for  Mademoiselle  Mimi  to  slip  into  the 
kitchen,  herself,  a  moment  before  dinner  and  season 
every  dish  over  again. 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE 

DURING  the  first  days  of  evil  fortune  as  many  of  us 
know,  hopes  have  a  deceitful  way  of  realization,  of  in 
carnating  themselves  as  it  were,  in  some  mere  piece  of 
good  luck.  Later  on  in  the  experience  they  keep  to  their 
proper  position  in  life,  always  flying  well  ahead  of  us, 
like  those  birds  we  can  catch  only  by  sprinkling  salt  on 
their  tails. 

Cicely's  recovery  was  followed  by  the  arrival  of  what 
was  taken  as  a  herald  of  the  new  prosperity  coming  down 
the  road  of  the  future  to  her  father.  An  old  debt, 
proscribed  by  the  war,  was  paid  by  one  who  refused  to 
avail  himself  of  his  legal  acquittance  of  it.  The  mother 
therefore,  in  the  strange  and  out-of-date  costume  she 
had  worn  on  her  journey  to  St.  Medard,  with  her  little 
girls  in  their  sunbonnets  and  homespun,  sat  once  again 
in  the  slow  mule  car,  retracing  the  route,  going  back 
from  her  Terra-incognita  into  that  fair  region  of  fashion 
that  had  lain  so  bright  in  her  memory,  during  the  stormy 
gloom  of  the  past  four  years ;  for,  as  it  was  but  right  and 
proper,  the  rude  and  coarse  garments  of  War  were  to 
be  discarded  and  seemlier  ones  for  Peace  assumed. 
Surely,  none  could  be  too  bright  and  beautiful  for  it! 
Nor  for  an  earth  whose  day  could  be  so  radiant,  whose 
sky  so  blue,  foliage  so  rich,  flowers  so  plenteous  and 
sweet  of  perfume,  and  breezes  so  fresh  and  pure  and 
playful.  The  chariot  of  Apollo  and  not  the  slow,  dingy 
mule  car,  should  have  been  the  vehicle  for  it! 

77 


78       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

"What  has  been  lost  after  all?  What  has  been  lost 
after  all?"  Any  one  in  the  car  might  have  read  the 
thought,  that  moved  her  lips  to  utter  the  words  aloud  and 
lifted  her  head  so  proudly,  and  flashed  into  her  eyes  so 
much  light  and  color,  when  youth  and  strength  and 
love  gave  the  answer:  Nothing!  Nothing! 

"  No  more  fear !  That  was  the  best  of  all,  no  more 
fear."  She  recalled,  that  before  the  war  she  had  never 
all  her  life  known  what  fear  was  .  .  .  how  could  she? 
Who  on  earth  was  there  for  her  to  be  afraid  of?  She 
never  knew  what  fear  was,  until  the  day  after  the  city 
was  captured,  when  soldiers  marched  through  the  streets 
in  all  directions  searching  houses  and  capturing 
prisoners ;  and  a  squad  of  them,  with  their  guns  in  their 
hands,  entered  her  house,  the  room  she  was  in.  She 
had  never  imagined  such  a  thing!  They  were  looking 
for  her  husband!  He  was  not  there  of  course,  he  had 
made  his  escape  with  all  the  papers  of  his  office.  But 
she  grew  so  white  when  the  officer  questioned  her,  and 
became  so  weak,  that  he  eyed  her  suspiciously  and  ac 
cused  her  of  lying.  She  was  sure  he  would  shoot  her 
husband  on  the  spot  if  he  found  him.  The  bright  day, 
flowers,  the  breeze,  Apollo's  chariot,  were  all  driven 
from  her  mind,  by  that  hideous  day.  When  the  soldiers 
marched  out  of  the  house,  she  fell  into  a  chair,  she 
could  support  herself  no  longer.  She  knew  what  fear 
was  then !  It  was  Gideon,  their  negro  boy,  who  ran  off 
to  the  enemy  as  they  entered  the  city,  and  told  them  not 
only  that  his  master  was  hidden  in  the  house,  but  guns 
and  ammunition  and  gold  and  silver  belonging  to  the 
Confederate  government.  Gideon,  the  rascal,  who  was 
not  worth  his  salt,  whom  she  had  saved  from  so  many 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE  79 

whippings  he  had  richly  earned;  and  once  when  her 
husband  had  made  up  his  mind  to  sell  him,  had  pleaded 
and  argued  against  it,  even  shedding  tears,  to  save  him 
from  being  sent  among  strangers,  because  she  knew  that 
then  he  would  meet  the  treatment  he  deserved.  She 
shook  her  head  and  looked  out  of  the  car  window  to  get 
rid  of  the  memory.  She  made  up  her  mind  not  to  think 
of  the  past;  for  even  to  remember  it  was  to  bring  it 
back.  She  determined  to  dwell  only  on  her  relief  from 
it.  But  what  surer  way  of  remembering  it?  For,  she 
had  not  ridden  any  distance,  when  her  thoughts  took 
up  again  just  where  they  had  left  off.  "  It  was  good 
now,  not  to  wake  up  at  night,  feeling  that  the  world 
was  full  of  fighting  and  bloodshed.  And,  oh !  above  all ! 
not  to  hear  the  guns  bombarding  Vicksburg!  The  first 
time  she  heard  them,  her  heart  stood  still.  She  did  not 
know  what  it  was,  and  then,  knew  it  was  the  sound 
of  cannon.  Cannon  being  shot  off  by  men  against  men. 
She  was  alone  on  the  plantation,  that  lonely  plantation, 
with  her  children  and  one  hundred  and  fifty  negroes  de 
pendent  on  her.  Even  the  overseer  had  gone  into  the 
war.  She  rose  from  her  bed  and  dressed,  saw  to  the 
fastenings  of  the  doors,  and  knelt  down  and  prayed 
.  .  .  and  stayed  kneeling  until  daylight.  The  next 
day  a  swamper  passing  in  his  pirogue  told  her  it  was 
the  Yankees  bombarding  Vicksburg.  Oh ;  Those  cannon ! 
Night  after  night  she  heard  them!  for  weeks,  months. 
Even  after  the  place  surrendered,  she  imagined  she  heard 
them  still  .  .  .  still  counted  the  shots  as  they  fell, 
imagined  still,  that  every  shot  was  killing,  killing  .  .  . 
sending  husbands  and  sons  out  of  life,  and  mothers  and 
wives  into  grief  that  would  know  no  end  .  .  .  and 


8o        THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

she  would  picture  these  mothers  to  herself,  these  wives 
.  .  .  until  she  could  not  remain  on  her  knees  but  would 
pace  the  floor  up  and  down,  up  and  down,  wildly  pray 
ing  in  that  position  to  God,  that  her  sons  might  never 
shed  human  blood.  Many  a  mother  or  wife — oh!  she 
saw  it  all ;  over  and  over  again, — perhaps,  the  one  whose 
son  or  husband  was  killed  at  that  very  moment  would 
not  know  it  until  the  war  was  over  and  maybe  would  be 
waiting  to  see  her  boy  or  her  husband  come  back,  alive 
and  well  and  strong  .  .  .  and  he  .  .  .a  mangled, 
shattered  corpse!  Perhaps,  she  would  read  it  in  some 
old,  soiled,  ragged  newspaper,  such  as  then  was  passed 
along  from  hand  to  hand  read  in  such  a  newspaper, 
handed  to  her  casually  by  a  passing  stranger,  .  .  . 
what  at  other  times  ministers,  friends,  relations,  could 
not  find  words  kind  enough  to  prepare  her  for  ..." 

Again  she  shook  her  head  and  looked  out  of  the 
window,  but  the  streets  were  all  so  strange  she  could 
not  tell  where  she  was,  how  far  from  her  ride's  end. 

"  Mama,"  whispered  Cicely,  plucking  at  her  sleeve, 
"  make  Polly  stop  talking,  she  is  telling  everything  to 
that  stranger." 

She  leaned  forward  and  looked  at  Polly,  who  was 
seated  by  the  friend  of  her  first  ride  in  the  car, — the  old 
gentleman  who  looked  like  General  Lee. 

"  Oh,  we  hate  the  city,"  she  was  telling  him,  "  we  all 
hate  the  city.  But  we  don't  mind  it." 

"  That's  right,"  answered  the  old  gentleman  heartily, 
"  it's  best  not  to  mind  things  one  hates." 

"  Yes,  that's  what  Papa  told  us,"  she  assented  affably. 
"  He  told  us  not  to  pay  any  attention  to  the  Yankees,  the 
United  States  soldiers,  I  mean ;  to  walk  right  along  when 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE  81 

we  met  them  just  as  if  we  didn't  see  'em,  them,  I  mean." 
"  But  if  you  do  that,  you  may  forget  to  hate  them." 
"  Oh,  no,  indeed,"  confidently,  "  we  would  always  hate 
'em  whether  we   saw   'em   or  not.     Everybody  hates 
Yankees,  I  reckon." 

"  Mama,  Mama,"  whispered  Cicely  again  in  agony, 
"  please  make  her  stop  talking." 

The  mother  shook  her  head  at  Polly,  but  the  stranger 
smiled  when  he  saw  it,  as  if  he  were  anything  but  a 
stranger,  and  far  too  much  amused  to  wish  the  conversa 
tion  arrested.  And  then,  again — so  strange  it  seemed 
in  a  street  car — came  to  the  mother's  mind,  another 
memory,  that  clutched  and  held  her  fast,  struggle  as  she 
would  to  escape  it.  Another  night  it  was,  the  night 
when  lying  awake — for  by  degrees  she  grew  afraid  to 
sleep  at  night, — she  heard  a  noise  on  the  Bayou,  a  noise 
that  made  her  think  she  was  dreaming.  She  slipped 
out  of  her  bed  and  crept  to  the  window  and,  lifting  one 
little  corner  of  the  curtain,  peeped  through,  and  saw — 
if  she  had  seen  the  heavens  open  and  hell  itself  revealed 
to  her,  she  could  not  have  been  more  terrified — she  saw 
a  vessel  gliding  stealthily  by,  down  the  Bayou,  a  trans 
port — she  could  make  out  the  cannon  on  it.  She  almost 
lost  consciousness,  she  was  so  frightened,  she  shook  as 
if  she  had  an  ague,  she  could  not  speak  for  the  chatter 
ing  of  her  teeth,  she  clasped  her  hands  together  with  her 
utmost  strength  to  stop  their  trembling,  and  when  there 
came  a  muffled  knock  at  her  door,  she  almost  screamed. 
But  it  was  only  Jerry  who  had  seen  the  boat  and  he 
had  come  at  once  to  her  in  case  she  too  had  seen  it. 
She  was  herself  again  at  once,  and  quickly  ordered  him 
to  saddle  his  master's  horse  and  ride  as  fast  as  he  could 


82        THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

through  the  woods,  to  the  nearest  Confederate  post  and 
report  that  he  had  seen  a  transport  filled  with  troops. 
Jerry  did  not  want  to  leave  her,  but  she  told  him  she 
was  not  afraid,  and  from  the  window  she  watched  him 
put  off  in  a  skiff  and  cross  the  Bayou,  the  horse  swim 
ming  behind,  and  Jerry  pulling  easily  so  as  not  to  awaken 
the  other  negroes  in  the  quarters.  How  light  the 
memory  came  and  went,  like  a  flitting  shadow.  .  .  . 

A  white  crape,  hanging  from  one  of  the  little  cottage 
doors,  carried  her  thoughts  back  again  to  the  plantation. 
Everything  took  her  back,  there.  She  could  not  get 
away  from  it  rowing  as  hard  as  she  could  against  the 
current  of  her  thoughts,  as  she  used  to  see  the  negroes 
row  against  the  current  of  the  Bayou;  and  still  the  cur 
rent  would  carry  her  on. 

She  saw  now,  in  a  moment,  the  whole  picture  of  that 
Summer,  that  terrible  Summer,  when  the  typhoid  fever 
broke  out,  and  ten  of  the  negroes,  stalwart  men  and 
women,  died,  one  after  the  other,  in  spite  of  all  that 
the  doctors'  books  recommended,  in  spite  of  all  that  any 
one  could  do.  She  wore  herself  out,  nursing  them  and 
used  up  all  her  fine  white  linen  sheets  for  winding  sheets 
— the  negroes'  sheets  being  unbleached  and  so  coarse — 
not  all  her  sheets,  for  she  had  saved  two,  for  herself  or 
her  husband  or  in  case  one  of  the  children  should  .  .  .  no, 
no!  she  must  not  remember  that.  When  she  did  it,  how 
afraid  she  was  that  some  one  would  find  it  out — that  she 
was  saving  two  sheets — that  terror  was  the  worst  of  all 
the  terrors  of  the  war.  The  others  were  nothing  in  com 
parison  to  it — the  terror  that  one  of  them,  one  of  her 
children  or  her  husband  should  die  like  the  negroes  in 
helpless  misery.  That  Jerry,  the  carpenter,  should  come 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE  83 

and  measure  the  corpse  for  a  coffin  as  she  had  seen  him 
do  so  often  for  the  negroes.  Ah !  how  she  used  to  won 
der  what  she  would  do — for  she  could  not  control 
her  thoughts  then  any  more  than  now — if  she  would 
allow  the  negroes  to  come  and  sing  as  they  did  over  their 
own  dead.  No!  she  knew  that  she  could  not,  nor  her 
husband,  brave  as  he  was,  if  he  were  there.  And  the 
coffin  would  be  put  into  a  skiff,  and  they  all,  in  their 
skiffs  would  row  down  the  Bayou,  following  it,  the  skiff 
with  the  coffin,  which  was  always  rowed  by  the  best 
pullers — Lafayette  and  John  Bull.  They  died  too  of 
the  typhoid  fever,  themselves,  the  last  of  all.  She  sat 
by  them  to  the  end,  first  one  and  then  the  other;  telling 
each  how  good  he  had  been  to  master,  mistress,  and  the 
children  and  that  God  would  be  good  to  them  too  and 
forgive  them  all  their  sins.  But  they  had  no  sins  at 
that  moment  in  her  eyes ;  and  they  would  all  meet  again, 
some  day,  and  would  all  be  together  in  heaven.  That 
was  the  best  consolation  for  them  all — that  they  would 
all  meet  again.  And  they  all  asked,  men  and  women, 
that  their  master,  or  if  he  were  not  there,  that  she  would 
stand  by  them  until  all  was  over,  that  is  if  they  were 
conscious;  for  some  of  them  went  into  delirium  at  the 
first  access  of  fever  and  never  became  sensible.  The 
men  would  laugh  and  talk  and  whistle  to  their  dogs 
thinking  they  were  at  a  coon  hunt  or  snap  their  fingers 
and  try  to  move  their  feet  thinking  they  were  dancing, 
crooning  their  songs  about  a  "  yeller  gal "  or  the 
"  paterol  "  catching  them.  And  she  saw  herself  and  her 
children,  in  the  skiff  of  mourners,  gliding  over  the  dark, 
deep  water  of  the  Bayou.  The  plantation,  bright  with 
the  sunset  on  one  bank,  the  great  forest  on  the  other, 


84       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

silent,  mysterious,  dark  as  if  under  the  very  wings  of 
death  itself,  the  tall  cypresses,  standing  in  long  files — 
like  innumerable  multitudes  of  departed  shades,  far,  far 
as  the  eye  could  see  and  above  all;  the  Bayou  and  the 
forest,  the  blue  sky,  so  serene,  so  serene  .  .  .  and  thus, 
the  measured  stroke  of  the  oars  alone  breaking  the 
silence,  they  would  come  to  the  high  knoll  covered 
with  oak  and  gum  trees,  cleared  of  underbrush,  and 
the  open  grave 

"  Mama,  Mama,  here  we  are  and  everybody  is  getting 
out,"  called  the  good  little  Cicely  excitedly,  pulling  at 
her  arm.  They  were  at  the  end  of  their  route  at  last. 

She  looked  around  eagerly.  Yes,  yes !  this  was  Canal 
Street!  The  bells  were  ringing  gaily  for  twelve  o'clock 
and  the  sun  was  at  its  brightest  overhead.  As  she  stepped 
out  of  the  car,  she  stepped  out  of  the  power  of  the 
memories  that  had  fascinated  her ;  like  a  hideous  face  she 
could  not  avoid  and  yet  wished  not  to  see.  Once  in  the 
street,  and  looking  about  her,  her  eyes  met  only  pleasant 
faces,  smiling  expressions,  and  show-windows  full  of 
pretty  things. 

To  a  stranger,  one  that  is  who  had  traveled  and  knew 
the  proper  standards  of  comparison,  it  was  an  ugly 
enough  street,  this,  that  represented  the  shopping  center 
and  fashionable  boulevard  of  a  rich  and  luxurious  city. 
But  she  who  looked  at  it  was  not  a  stranger  and  had 
not  traveled.  When  she  looked  up  and  saw  the  blue  sky, 
just  as  she  remembered  it,  so  close  above  her  and  so  clear, 
that  as  a  child  she  was  sure  she  could  see  the  angels 
flying  in  it;  and  when  she  saw  the  irregular  line  of  the 
roofs  so  familiar  that  at  any  time  on  the  plantation  she 
could  have  drawn  the  pattern  of  it  as  easily  as  a  scollop 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE  8s 

for  embroidery;  and  when  she  saw  all  the  old  names 
there  over  the  shops :  American,  French,  Spanish,  Italian 
names,  that  she  had  learned  to  spell  with  her  first 
a,  b,  c's,  and  the  confectioners'  shops  standing  each  one 
on  its  corner,  with  orange  trees  in  tubs  before  it;  and 
the  old  church,  too,  like  the  sky,  just  where  she  had 
left  it,  and  just  as  she  had  left  it;  when  she  saw  all  this 
so  beautiful,  so  supremely  beautiful  and  beyond  com 
parison  with  anything  else  in  the  world  as  far  as  she 
cared,  she  stood  still,  and  like  the  daughters  of  Jerusalem, 
her  mouth  was  filled  with  laughter.  Her  little  girls 
looked  at  her  with  astonishment,  and  almost  disapproval ; 
they  laughed  that  way,  but  they  had  never  heard  her 
laugh  that  way  before. 

"  The  first  thing,"  she  said  briskly,  "  is  shoes."  Taking 
the  hand  of  each  one,  she  crossed  the  street,  through 
what  seemed  to  their  rustic  eyes  a  most  perilous  throng 
of  vehicles,  more  than  all  the  plantation  carts  together 
in  the  Grinding  time. 

"  See,"  she  exclaimed,  "  Henry  Clay's  statue,  that  I 
have  told  you  about  so  often!  And  there's  the  river! 
and  the  levee !  where  we  landed !  And  all  the  steamboats ! 
I  wonder  if  the  Bayou  Belle  is  there  still,  don't  you?" 
and  they  all  laughed  together.  The  Bayou  Belle !  They 
had  all  but  forgotten  her. 

In  a  secluded  and  aristocratic  community  such  as  New 
Orleans  had  been  hitherto,  sentiment  and  tradition  have 
more  sway  in  the  patronage  of  shops,  than  in  the  cities 
where  the  very  restlessness  of  its  progress,  as  commercial 
prosperity  is  called,  makes  too  unstable  a  soil  for  such 
growths,  which  require  above  all  things,  the  long  con 
tinuous  routine  of  habit.  And  among  a  people  too  rich 


86       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

or  too  careless  to  care  for  price  if  the  quality  suits,  and 
where  competition,  consequently,  is  a  matter  of  no 
moment  to  tradesmen,  there  grows  up  between  families 
and  their  purveyors, — be  they  of  hats,  or  books,  con 
fectionery,  laces,  or  silks — a  loyalty  of  patronage  and 
service  not  to  be  severed  lightly  any  more  than  a  friend 
ship.  And  when  ladies  have  only  to  select  and  furnishers 
to  offer  agreeably,  shopping  assumes  a  different  aspect 
from  the  sordid  bargaining,  which,  alas!  dire  necessity 
forced  it  to  assume  at  a  later  day. 

Mrs.  Talbot  entered  the  only  shoe  shop  she  had  ever 
known,  and  such,  it  must  be  confessed,  was  its  un- 
progressive  character,  that  she  found  it  just  as  it  was 
not  merely,  when  she  left  it,  four  years  before,  but  as 
she  remembered  it  from  the  time  she  was  a  little  girl. 
There  was  the  same  dark  red  velvet  carpet  on  the  floor, 
with  its  great  white  medallions  holding  bouquets  of 
flowers;  from  the  ceiling  dropped  the  same  chandelier, 
with  its  bunches  of  red  glass  globes;  the  low  chairs 
with  red  velvet  cushions  for  grown  customers,  and  the 
tall  ones  to  which  children  were  lifted  to  try  on  their 
shoes,  were  the  same  to  which  she  had  been  lifted  or 
later  had  sat  upon  as  a  young  lady  to  try  on  her  first 
party  slippers.  And  to  complete  the  picture,  there  was 
old  Gregoire,  in  his  short  jacket  and  long  apron  and 
great  spectacles,  looking  as  cross  and  surly  as  ever.  But 
his  stolid  face  softened  into  a  smile  as  he  recognized 
her  and  she  would  gladly  have  shaken  hands  with  him. 
He  lifted  the  little  ones  to  the  tall  chairs  and  getting 
down  slowly  to  his  knees  in  front  of  them  took  a  shoe 
off  each  and  held  the  ugly  little  things  close  to  his  glasses ; 
then  raised  his  perplexed  eyes  to  the  mother. 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE  87 

She  laughed.  "  Oh !  We  made  those  on  our  planta 
tion!  And  I  can  tell  you  we  were  very  glad  to  get 
them!  The  skin  came  from  one  of  our  own  alligators, 
shot,  swimming  in  our  own  Bayou,  and  our  own  shoe 
maker  tanned  it  and  made  the  shoes  and  I,"  she  concluded 
with  pride,  "  I  made  the  eyelets  myself." 

"  My  God ! "  exclaimed  the  Frenchman,  "  and  they 
are  so  bad  too." 

He  got  up  as  slowly  and  stiffly  as  he  had  got  down, 
and  walking  the  length  of  the  room  down  one  side, 
opened  drawer  after  drawer,  gleaning  various  kinds  of 
little  shoes  from  them,  and  came  back  with  them  hanging 
by  their  strings  over  his  arm.  He  held  them  for  the 
mother's  inspection :  "  How  thin,"  she  cried  in  a  dismay 
that  rivaled  his  on  seeing  the  other  shoes.  "  How  slight ! 
Why  they  would  wear  out  in  no  time !  They  would  not 
last  for  one  walk  and  the  heels  are  too  high !  " 

"  They  are  the  shoes  that  ladies  wear,"  he  said,  "  they 
are  the  shoes  you  always  bought  yourself  before  you 
made  them  things," — looking  at  the  specimens  on  the 
floor. 

"  Ah !  How  countrified  and  rusty  I  have  become ;  " 
she  answered  gaily.  The  old  man,  without  listening  to 
her,  commenced  to  try  on  the  new  shoes.  Again,  in 
consternation,  he  held  up  one  of  the  little  feet  and  looked 
at  it  through  his  spectacles  as  if  to  make  sure  of  its 
identity. 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  the  mother  apologetically,  "  I  forgot 
the  stockings.  I  should  have  bought  the  stockings  first, 
I  am  so  sorry !  " 

"  You  had  to  make  your  stockings,  too,  out  there?  "  he 
asked. 


88        THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

"  Oh,  yes !  we  knit  them,  we  all  wore  knit  stockings." 

"  Well,  the  niggers  wasn't  worth  it,"  he  said. 

She  looked  on  while  he  fitted  the  shoes,  smoothing  them 
carefully  with  his  hands  as  if  they  were  gloves,  looking 
at  them  with  his  head  on  one  side  and  saying  as  he  always 
used  to  do :  "  They  look  as  well  as  if  they  were  made 
to  order." 

"  And  I  am  going  to  try  a  pair  of  ready  made  shoes 
myself,"  she  responded,  "  instead  of  going  to  the  ex 
pense  of  having  them  made  to  order.  We  must  econo 
mize  now,  you  know."  When  this  was  accomplished, 
however,  she  went  out  of  the  shop  in  the  old  way  without 
asking  the  price  of  what  she  bought  or  giving  her 
address.  "  And  now,"  she  said,  "  we  must  go  for  those 
stockings  before  we  forget  them  again."  There  was 
but  the  one  place  for  stockings  in  her  experience,  the 
place  where  she  and  her  mother  before  her  had  always 
bought  their  stockings — at  Sinclair's,  the  old  Scotch 
man's.  His  shop  was  rather  small  but  every  article  in 
it  was  imported  and  therefore  in  local  opinion,  good. 

Old  Sinclair  was  walking  up  and  down  the  aisle  be 
tween  his  two  counters  in  his  same  old  morose,  abstracted 
way.  He  did  not  recognize  her,  but  the  clerk  she  ad 
dressed  did  so  at  once. 

"  You  should  have  seen  the  way  old  Gregoire  looked 
at  our  knit  stockings,"  she  explained  humorously  to 
him.  Those  he  showed  her  were  fine,  soft  and  firm, 
and  exquisite  as  of  yore  in  their  finish. 

"  They  are  the  real  lisle  thread,"  she  murmured,  as 
she  held  them  in  her  hand.  She  said  the  words  as  if 
in  a  dream,  they  were  so  familiar  and  yet  so  strange. 
How  important  the  meaning  used  to  be  to  her,  before 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE  89 

she  found  out  what  the  real  knit  stocking  was!  What 
it  was  to  watch  the  cotton  growing,  to  have  it  spun 
into  thread  by  her  own  favorite  spinner  among  the 
negro  women,  and  so  particular  she  was,  to  see  herself 
to  the  dyeing,  from  indigo  grown  on  the  plantation  and 
prepared  according  to  a  recipe  from  an  old  encyclopedia 
of  useful  knowledge.  And  then,  the  knitting  of  them 
in  the  long  Winter  evenings  by  the  light  of  her  log 
fire;  the  children  scattered  on  the  floor  around  her  or 
perhaps  sleeping  in  their  beds  which  she  could  see  through 
the  open  door.  If  her  husband  were  there,  he  would  be 
talking  to  her  of  what  they  would  do  when  the  war  was 
over.  And  if  he  were  not  there  she  would  be  thinking  of 
him;  wondering  where  he  was  and  listening  with  tense 
ears  while  she  watched  her  needles.  But  the  plantation 
would  be  all  quiet,  save  for  the  barking  of  a  dog  or 
the  hooting  of  an  owl  now  and  then.  And  her  heart 
would  glow  as  she  would  think  how  her  husband  would 
praise  her  if  he  knew  how  tranquil  the  plantation  was, 
and  the  work  going  on  so  smoothly,  and  the  children 
so  well,  and  life,  after  all,  so  comfortable  .  .  .  and 
an  electric  current  would  seem  to  pass  from  her  heart 
into  her  needles,  they  would  click  and  flash  in  her  hands 
and  the  stocking  would  grow  marvelously.  On  such 
evenings,  she  loved  to  knit ;  would  knit  with  poetic  fervor 
thanking  God  that  there  were  so  many  stockings  for  her 
to  knit.  Ah !  rough  and  uncomfortable  as  they  were,  the 
homely  knit  stocking  had  an  advantage  in  sentiment 
and  association  over  the  soft  lisle  thread  ones; 
they  were  merely  a  purchase,  the  others  an  achieve 
ment. 

This  time,  she  remembered  to  ask  the  price.     It  did 


90       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

not  go  in  one  ear  and  out  of  the  other,  as  it  might  have 
done,  for  it  was  too  large. 

"  That's  very  dear,"  she  exclaimed,  "  I  mean,"  with  a 
polite  smile,  "  they  are  too  fine,  I  want  the  quality  I 
used  to  wear.  I  always  paid  the  same  price  for  them! 
I  have  forgotten  what  it  was,  but  it  was  not  nearly  so 
high." 

"  Perhaps,"  the  clerk  suggested  timidly,  "  you  had 
better  take  a  cotton  stocking." 

"  Cotton  stockings !  How  cotton  stockings  ?  Cheaper 
lisle  thread,  you  mean.  I  have  never  worn  cotton  stock 
ings  in  my  life  .  .  .  and  I  never  shall." 

"  Then,  Madam,  you  must  pay  the  price  of  these." 

"  I  suppose,  I  must,  if  you  say  so,  but  it  seems  to 
me,  instead  of  being  poorer,  we  ought  to  be  richer,  if 
we  have  to  pay  so  much  for  things." 

The  clerk  smiled  at  her  foolishness;  not  old  Sinclair, 
who  despite  his  abstracted  manner,  was  always  watching 
his  clerks  and  listening  to  what  they  said  to  cus 
tomers.  He  abruptly  and  almost  violently  joined  in  the 
conversation.  He  told  the  lady,  still  not  recognizing 
her,  that  in  his  opinion,  the  war  had  been  brought  on 
for  this  very  purpose  to  enrich  the  North  and  ruin  the 
South — to  increase  the  price  of  Northern  manufactured 
goods  and  force  the  South  to  buy  them;  to  raise  the 
tariff  higher  and  higher,  and  force  away  foreign  com 
petition  and  then  put  their  miserable  counterfeit  sub 
stitutes  for  honest  fabrics  up  to  the  price  of  the  real, 
genuine  article.  She  would  see  the  day,  raising  his  voice 
and  shaking  his  head  until  his  wig  slipped  awry,  she 
would  see  the  day  when  the  tariff  would  be  prohibitive 
against  imports,  when  there  would  not  be  a  single  im- 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE  91 

porting  house  left  in  the  city,  when  the  whole  Southern 
country  would  be  the  monopoly  of  the  Northern  manu 
facturer. 

The  old  man  turned  away  still  talking  excitedly  to 
himself.  She  smiled  now  at  his  foolishness  and  told 
the  clerk  out  of  her  wisdom  that  the  day  would  never 
come  when  ladies  would  ever  wear  anything  but  Scotch 
lisle  thread  stockings,  French  silks,  and  English  flannels. 
The  clerk  leaned  over  the  counter  and  watching  the  back 
of  his  employer,  said  in  a  low  voice :  "  The  old  gentleman 
is  not  well,  he  is  suffering  from  great  excitement.  He 
has  lost  a  great  deal  by  the  war  and  has  a  claim  now 
against  the  government  for  an  invoice  of  goods  that 
were  seized  and  held  when  the  city  was  captured.  He 
is  going  out  of  business,  and  back  to  Scotland.  This  is 
our  last  year." 

She  went  now  to  the  general  furnishing  establishment 
of  the  city — Fortuny's.  On  the  way  she  pointed  out 
to  her  little  daughters  the  celebrated  place,  as  she  called 
it,  where  all  the  brides  used  to  get  their  wedding  dresses, 
and  where  they  bought  their  real  lace  veils  and  flounces, 
and  the  jeweller,  where  the  diamonds  and  silver  came 
from. 

In  the  center  of  Fortuny's  the  aisles  and  counters  left 
a  respectful  circular  space  where,  when  he  was  in  the 
shop,  Fortuny  always  stood.  Where  now,  stood  his 
viceroy,  Volant;  a  short,  square,  good-looking  old 
Frenchman,  extending  to  strangers  and  friends  his  alert 
greeting  and  friendly  welcome,  with  all  the  shrewdness 
of  a  trader  and  all  the  bonhomie  of  a  host  in  his  face. 

Before  he  saw  who  was  approaching  he  had  his  smile 
ready  and  his  "  Ah,  Madame,  I  am  very  glad  to  see  you," 


92        THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

but  when  he  saw  who  it  was,  this  was  turned  into  a 
paternal:  "  Tiens,  is  it  really  you?  Our  little  Madame 
Talbot !  When  did  you  arrive  ?  But  when  did  you  come 
back?  "  he  repeated  in  his  strong  French  accent. 

"  Only  this  month,  Monsieur  Volant.  I  ought  to  say, 
only  this  minute,"  she  added  brightly,  looking  around. 
"  And  I  am  out  of  everything  I  need,  everything,  every 
thing." 

"  Then  it  is  not  in  Paris  you  have  been  this  long 
time?"  he  asked  with  affected  naivete,  "in  Paris,  the 
Paradise  of  the  ladies,  where  as  Eve  did,  they  learn 
how  to  dress  themselves." 

"In  Paris!  In  Paradise!"  she  retorted  with  real 
naivete,  "  I  have  been  in  the  wilds  of  Louisiana,  Mon 
sieur  Volant,  in  the  swamps,  in  the  war.  It  does  not 
look  here  as  if  you  had  ever  heard  of  the  war;  every 
thing,  so  rich — so  beautiful." 

The  words  died  on  her  lips  as  her  eyes  followed  the 
unfolding  of  silks,  holding  up  of  gauzes,  the  opening 
out  of  laces  in  all  directions  with  here  a  showcase  of 
fans  glittering  with  spangles  and  tinsel,  there  a  rustling 
heap  of  ribbons  and  wide  sashes,  and  a  never-ceasing 
procession  of  shoppers,  coming  and  going,  just  as  they 
used  to  do.  "  Humph,"  grunted  Monsieur  Volant,  "  do 
not  be  mistaken,  my  child,  we  have  been  to  the  war  too, 
we  are  still  there  I  may  say,  but,"  shrugging  his  shoulders, 
"  you  know  the  proverb,  '  il  faut  prendre  dans  la  foret 
de  quoi  la  bruler/ ' 

"  And  Monsieur  Fortuny?  How  is  he?  Is  he  here?" 
She  asked  after  the  proprietor  of  the  shop  according  to 
the  polite  usage  of  the  ladies  of  the  city. 

"  Monsieur  Fortuny  is  here,  he  departs  for  France,  no 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE  93 

later  than  tomorrow.  He  is  well  and  looking  young, 
of  course.  Men  of  his  age  always  look  young  when  they 
are  well,  and  old  when  they  are  not.  Monsieur  Fortuny 
is  going  away  with  ideas,  he  has  plans,  he  is  going  to 
enlarge,  to  beautify,  in  fact,  to  astonish  his  patrons." 

"  Then  he  is  not  like  poor  old  Sinclair,  who  talks  as 
if  he  were  ruined." 

"  Monsieur  Fortuny  is  a  man  who  would  never  talk 
as  if  he  were  ruined,  Madame;  he  is  a  man  who  could 
never  be  ruined,  no  matter  what  happened  to  him.  He 
makes  gains  out  of  his  losses.  The  blood  of  the  martyrs, 
you  know,  is  the  seed  of  the  church.  Shall  I  send  for 
him,  for  you  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  thank  you,  Monsieur  Volant.  I  shall  see  him 
some  other  time.  In  fact  I  am  very  busy  today.  I 
have  so  much  to  buy  and  I  know  I  shall  forget  half." 

"As  the  ladies  always  do.  And  when  one  thinks; 
just  a  little  notebook  and  pencil — a  little  list — a  little 
memorandum — a  little  notebook,  no  larger  than  this  " — 
he  had  been  putting  his  hand  in  his  coatpocket  and  now 
took  out  a  little  notebook  to  show  her,  showing  the  pencil, 
too.  "  And  you  have  only  to  write  down  one  after  the 
other,  everything  you  are  going  to  buy — needles,  buttons, 
pins,  tape,  ribbon,  hooks  and  eyes,  cologne,  these  are  the 
things  the  ladies  forget.  They  never  forget  a  silk  dress, 
a  velvet  cloak,  a  lace  flounce."  All  the  time  he  was  talk 
ing,  his  eyes  were  busy  watching  the  clerks  and  looking 
down  the  aisles  to  see  who  were  coming  in  and  going  out. 
He  did  not  have  to  walk  up  and  down  and  pry  and 
listen.  Knowing  the  people  under  him  as  well  as  he  did, 
and  the  people  of  the  city,  and  being  in  addition  a  keen 
physiognomist,  trained  from  childhood  by  the  best  of 


94        THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

trainers,  necessity,  to  study  faces  and  learn  what  lay 
behind  them  wherever  his  eyes  reached,  he  knew  what 
was  going  on  without  resorting  to  the  base  usages  of 
old  Sinclair. 

He  always  talked  to  his  lady  customers  as  if  they  were 
children  or  at  best  only  on  the  verge  of  intelligence.  It 
sounded  strange  to  Mrs.  Talbot  now  after  the  training 
she  had  been  undergoing  since  last  she  had  heard  Volant 
talk,  but  she  went  back  instinctively  to  the  time  and  the 
manner  of  the  time  that  Volant  recalled:  the  amused 
attitude  of  a  lady  who  could  not  burden  her  mind  with 
such  details  as  the  trouble  she  gave  people  or  the  price 
of  things. 

"  A  lady  comes  here,"  pursued  Volant,  "  and  spends 
her  morning  shopping  for  things  she  cannot  wait  for; 
they  must  be  sent  to  her  by  a  special  messenger  at  once. 
Well,  the  messenger  is  no  sooner  off  with  his  bundle  than 
here  comes  a  negro  boy  flying  down  us — '  Mistress  has 
forgotten  pins,  please  put  them  in  the  bundle ' — and  he 
is  hardly  out  of  sight  when  here  comes  Madame's  maid 
running  into  the  store — *  Mistress  forgot  needles,  please 
put  them  in  the  bundle/  That  is  the  way  it  is  all  the 
time.  It  gives  them  trouble,  it  gives  us  trouble  .  .  . 
and  all  for  want  of  what  ?  A  little  notebook  and  pencil." 

"  Oh,  yes !  I  know  it,  Monsieur  Volant.  You  are 
perfectly  right.  My  husband  is  always  telling  me  the 
same  thing.  He  thinks  too,  that  ladies  should  write  their 
accounts  in  little  books  so  as  to  know  exactly  how  much 
they  spend;  and  keep  their  receipts,  too,  of  the  money 
they  pay  out.  But  when  money  is  spent,  what  is  the  use 
of  remembering  it?  On  the  contrary,  the  sooner  we 
forget  it  the  better."  That  is  the  way,  precisely,  that 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE  95 

she  used  to  talk  and  feel.  "  My  husband  is  a  real 
American  in  his  ideas." 

"  Our  ladies  and  business  methods ! "  Monsieur 
Volant  raised  his  eyes  and  hands  at  the  absurdity  of  the 
connection.  "  Why,  they  will  not  even  handle  the  money 
in  their  own  purses  when  they  can  avoid  it.  They  prefer 
to  charge  a  paper  of  pins  rather  than  pay  for  it  and  so 
the  clerk  has  to  write  it  down  on  a  check  and  the  check 
has  to  be  written  down  in  the  account  book  and  that  has 
to  be  copied  in  another  book.  Ah !  You  should  see  the 
great  book  upstairs  that  all  the  accounts  are  kept  in. 
There  are  letters  on  the  margin.  He  turns  until  he 
comes  to  your  letter,  and  then  till  he  comes  to  your  name 
and  then  he  writes  down : '  One  paper  of  pins,  five  cents.' ' 

"  That  is  so."  She  laughed  in  a  pleased  way  as  if  the 
description  were  complimentary  and  Volant  laughed  in 
a  pleased  way  also,  for  it  was  complimentary  in  his  eyes. 
What  he  most  liked  in  "  our  ladies,"  as  he  called  them, 
was  their  easy,  careless  extravagance,  their  utter  indif 
ference  to  their  money  and  to  the  trouble  they  gave. 
That  was  being  a  lady  as  he  saw  it.  To  be  hard-working, 
saving,  wrinkling  up  eyes  at  a  price,  drawing  down  the 
mouth  over  a  bargain,  that  was  being  a  woman,  being 
in  fact  what  his  own  sturdy,  common,  coarse  mother  was. 

"  When  strangers  come  here,  Northerners,"  he  went 
on,  "  and  they  look  at  their  change,  and  find  no  pennies, 
they  are  amazed.  Yes,  and  some  of  them  are  indignant, 
too.  *  But  you  owe  me  two  cents/  they  protest,  or  '  one 
cent/  And  then  we  have  to  explain  that  we  have  no 
smaller  coin  than  five  cents;  and  if  we  had  it  we  could 
not  make  use  of  it ;  our  clientele  would  not  take  coppers 
in  change." 


96       THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

"Of  course  we  would  not,  Monsieur  Volant!  The 
idea  of  carrying  around  a  lot  of  ugly  coppers  for  the  sake 
of  one,  two,  or  three  cents !  I  like  to  have  things  charged 
too  instead  of  paying  for  them  at  once.  It  is  like  asking 
the  price  of  things,"  she  went  on  easily  and  inconse- 
quently,  "  when  I  think  of  it  I  ask,  but  the  answer  goes 
in  one  ear  and  out  of  the  other.  I  never  pay  attention 
to  it.  But  after  all,  what  difference  does  it  make?  If 
one  needs  a  thing,  one  must  have  it." 

"  And  ladies  always  think  they  need  what  they  want." 

"Of  course,"  she  answered,  not  seeing  his  fine  irony. 

"  It  is  upon  this  truth,  Madame,  that  we  build  our 
trade.  It  is  our  rock,"  his  eyes  twinkling  maliciously, 
"  and  the  one  who  makes  most  profit  in  our  business, 
is  precisely  the  one  who  is  most  successful  in  making 
the  ladies  believe  that  what  they  want  is  what  they  need. 

She  laughed  pleasantly.  He  was  the  same  Volant  that 
her  mother  used  to  chat  with  just  as  she  was  doing 
now  when  she  was  a  little  girl  like  Cicely  and  Polly ;  and 
he  looked  no  older  then,  than  he  did  at  that  moment. 

By  an  effort  she  recalled  all  she  intended  to  buy  when 
she  left  home  and  a  great  deal  more,  many  things  that 
she  did  not  know  she  needed  until  she  saw  them.  Just 
as  she  used  to,  just  as  she  used  to,  when  sometimes  she 
would  go  into  a  shop  "  en  passant "  without  wanting  to 
buy  a  thing  and  these  would  be  very  likely  the  occasions 
on  which  she  would  buy  most.  But  as  the  clerk  always 
assured  her,  if  she  had  a  thing  in  the  house  she  could 
always  find  a  need  for  it.  Many  a  time  when  she  heard 
of  a  case  of  distress,  all  that  she  had  to  do  was  to  go 
to  an  armoire  and  take  out  flannel,  linen,  calico,  a  shawl, 
and  send  them  to  the  unfortunate  woman  without  having 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE  97 

to  buy  a  thing.  Hats  she  could  not  find  at  Fortuny's. 
From  time  immemorial,  Florette' s  was  the  only  place 
for  hats ;  that  is,  since  Florette  the  handsome  black-eyed 
girl  who  used  to  take  the  bonnets  to  the  homes  of  the 
ladies,  to  try  them  on  there  (for  exclusive  ladies  would 
not  try  on  hats  or  dresses  either  at  a  modiste's)  since 
Florette  had  found  the  capital,  the  fates  alone  knew 
how  or  where,  to  buy  out  her  patron  and  set  herself  up 
in  old  Victorine's  place.  A  youthful  and  blooming  suc 
cessor  she  was  to  that  ancient  milliner  about  whom  the 
old  grandmothers  used  to  whisper  such  interesting  stories 
to  one  another.  But  the  stories !  the  stories !  whatever  a 
woman  does  seems  to  contain  a  story,  even  to  selling 
bonnets. 

Many  a  court  beauty,  however,  has  received  her  ad 
vance  in  life  for  no  better  qualities  and  no  more  beautiful 
black  eyes  than  Florette's.  And  like  many  a  thus  ad 
vanced  beauty,  Florette  displayed  such  aptitude  in  her 
opportunities,  such  cleverness,  such  tact,  quickness  of 
tongue,  versatility  of  decorum,  that  she  exorcised  her 
past  from  the  memory  of  those  who  knew  the  truth 
about  it.  To  people  who  did  not  know  the  truth,  and 
these  after  all  are  the  only  impartial  judges  in  this  world, 
she  seemed  to  have  stepped  from  obscurity  into  full- 
fledged  divinity,  by  as  natural,  simple,  and  innocent  a 
process  as  Minerva  or  Cinderella.  She  was  now  well 
on  the  way  to  old  age,  herself,  and  by  the  utmost  reach 
of  her  art  looked  no  younger  than  fifty,  yet,  she  was  still 
handsome,  still  amiable,  still  the  black-eyed,  strapping 
Florette  who  used  to  carry  bandboxes  through  the  streets, 
past  all  the  rich  gentlemen's  offices,  even  if  she  had  to 
go  out  of  her  way  to  do  so. 


98        THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

When  her  old  client  entered  the  room,  Florette  gave 
an  exclamation  such  as  one  utters  at  a  calamity. 

"  Ah,  Madame !  Is  it  you  ?  No,  it  is  not  you !  No, 
impossible!  Ah,  Dieu!  Just  Heavens!  Ah!  Ah!  No! 
No!  not  here!  Not  out  here!  In  my  office,  in  my 
office !  "  leading  the  way  into  a  kind  of  boudoir  at  the 
back  of  her  shop.  "  But  when  did  you  arrive  ?  Three 
weeks  here  without  coming  to  see  me !  You  should  have 
come  straight  here  from  the  boat.  You  should  not  have 
gone  through  the  streets  before  coming  to  see  me!  I 
would  have  sent  to  the  boat  to  you !  I  would  have  sent 
Cesar  to  you !  Cesar !  Cesar !  "  she  called  aloud  and 
when  her  principal  shop  woman  came,  a  sedate,  plainly 
dressed  woman,  with  a  black  silk  apron  on  (Florette  had 
no  Florettes  about  her,  we  may  be  sure).  Cesar,  bring 
some  bonnets  for  Madame  and  for  the  young  ladies." 

She  took  off  Madame's  bonnet  herself  and  raised  her 
eyes  to  heaven  as  she  held  it  up  in  her  hands :  "  Ah ! 
war,  war,  what  do  you  make  us  suffer!  It  is  what  I 
say  all  the  time;  nothing,  nothing,  is  worth  a  war.  If 
you  cannot  gain  what  you  want  in  peace,  give  it  up! 
The  church  is  right,  it  is  better  to  forgive  your  enemies ; 
you  lose  less  in  the  end."  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say 
that  Florette  was  on  good  terms  with  the  church.  One 
of  the  qualities  of  such  women  is  to  disarm  their  official 
judges,  nay,  even  their  executioners,  and  she  was  quite 
in  the  position  to  quote  the  church,  accurately  or  in 
accurately.  Until  Cesar  came  back  with  the  bandboxes, 
she  continued  her  subject. 

"  Nothing  is  so  old-fashioned,  nothing,  as  an  old- 
fashioned  bonnet!  Only  five  years  ago,  this  was  the 
last  smile  of  fashion.  The  changes,  you  say,  the  changes 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE  99 

in  politics?  I  assure  you  the  changes  in  politics  are 
nothing  to  the  changes  in  fashion.  I  myself,  what 
do  I  know,  I  came  from  Paris  last  fall.  I  go  in 
a  month,  I  may  find  everything  changed.  When  I 
left,  it  was  all,  Empress  Eugenie  still ;  .  .  .  a  graceful, 
beautiful  figure  de  rigueur;  the  Andalusian  figure,  and 
to  be  blonde;  the  hair  in  curls,  en  cache  peigne."  She 
turned  her  head  to  show  her  luxuriant  bunch  of  artificial 
curls  falling  like  a  waterfall  over  the  top  of  a  comb. 
Very  appropriately,  while  she  was  speaking,  Henriette, 
the  hair  dresser,  came  in  through  a  back  door  having 
finished  her  duties  of  combing  Florette's  shop  girls.  She 
was  as  old  as  Florette  but  looked  her  age.  Both  dated 
from  the  same  period  of  time  in  the  community,  but  while 
Florette  was  carrying  bandboxes,  Henriette,  infinitely 
better  dressed,  was  carrying  only  her  little  straw  basket 
on  her  arm.  Her  mistress  had  apprenticed  her  to  a 
French  coiffeur  in  the  city  (all  intelligent,  young  negro 
maids  were  then  sent  to  school  to  a  coiffeur)  and 
Henriette  had  profited  so  well  by  her  instruction  that 
when  her  mistress  died,  she  was  able  to  buy  her 
freedom. 

She  was  perfectly  black,  a  fact  of  which  she  was  very 
proud,  for  it  meant  incontrovertibly  the  virtue  of  her 
ancestresses  and  she  therefore  considered  herself  as  much 
above  mulattoes  and  quadroons  as  they  thought  them 
selves  above  her.  This  consciousness  gave  her  a  fine 
carriage;  she  held  her  head  high  and  walked  like  an 
African  queen!  Florette,  herself,  did  not  walk  more 
admirably. 

She  was  dressed,  (no  one  had  ever  seen  her  dressed 
differently),  in  a  purple  calico  gown,  with  a  black  silk 


ioo      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

apron,  a  white  kerchief  crossed  over  her  bosom;  large 
gold  rings  in  her  ears,  and  on  her  head,  a  tignon,  of  real 
Madras,  from  which  a  loop  of  soft  black  wool,  made 
a  deep  scallop  on  each  side  of  her  face.  Here  was  some 
more  unchanging  reality  in  the  apparently  universal 
change. 

"Still  here?  Still  combing,  Henriette?"  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Talbot,  speaking  as  if  after  a  lapse  of  fifty,  instead 
of  four  years. 

"  Why  should  I  not  be  here,  Madame?  And  combing? 
I  have  been  free  and  working  for  my  living  long  before 
there  was  any  talk  of  the  freedom  by  the  war."  Her 
voice  was  musical  and  low  in  tone,  but  she  shrew  a  dash 
of  contempt  in  her  words. 

A  shop  girl  came  in  with  a  large  glossy  black  box  filled 
with  white  Spanish  lace  scarfs.  She  spoke  in  an  under 
tone  to  Florette,  showing  one  or  two. 

"A  stranger?"  asked  Florette,  in  a  tone  of  indif 
ference. 

"  Yes,  Madame." 

"An  American?" 

"  Yes,  Madame." 

"  The  price  is  marked  on  it,  go  by  the  price." 

"  But,  Madame,"  the  girl  sank  her  voice  to  make  an 
explanation. 

"  Eh!  Ah!  he  says  that,  does  he?  That  he  can  buy  it 
at  Fortuny's,  eh?"  She  turned  upon  the  girl  with 
an  ominous  look  in  her  face. 

"  And  you,  Mademoiselle,  repeat  that  insolence  to  me 
instead  of  putting  the  box  back  on  the  shelf  and  telling 
him  to  go  then  to  Fortuny's?  You  .  .  .  but  I  will 
speak  to  Madame  Cesar  about  you."  The  crestfallen  girl 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACF:  101 

stumbled  and  almost  fell  in  her  confusion  as  she  left 
the  room. 

During  the  colloquy,  Henriette,  in  her  grave,  business 
like  way  had  undone  the  hair  of  the  little  girls  and 
passed  her  comb  through  it,  softly  feeling  the  scalp. 
"  This  one,"  she  said  of  Polly,  "  is  thick  but  you  must 
not  cut  it  so  often,  it  is  wrong  to  cut  the  hair  so  often. 
This  one,"  of  Cicely,  "  has  fine  hair  but  thin.  You  must 
put  some  pomade  on  it.  Put  it  on  once  a  week  and  rub 
it  in  softly.  The  Americans  brush  the  hair  too  much  and 
they  use  too  hard  a  brush.  Use  a  soft  brush,  not  a 
hard  one  and  do  not  brush  too  much.  The  Creole  ladies 
have  softer,  prettier  hair  than  the  Americans,  whose  hair 
is  stiff  and  straight." 

She  plaited  the  little  girl's  hair  again  and  tied  it  with 
a  ribbon  that  she  took  from  her  basket  and  then  took 
out  from  it  a  curious  little  pot  of  pomade.  Florette 
brought  the  little  pots  from  Paris  but  Henriette  made  the 
pomade  herself.  It  had  been  one  of  her  ways  of  getting 
rich  for  she  charged  for  it  as  Florette  did  for  her  goods, 
not  according  to  value,  but  to  the  customer.  She  rolled 
the  pot  in  a  piece  of  Florette's  especial,  heavy,  unglazed 
dark-blue  paper  and  gave  it  to  one  of  the  little  girls; 
saying  to  the  mother  who  made  a  gesture  toward  her 
purse :  "  Oh,  no,  Madame !  pay  me  the  next  time  you  see 
me."  And  then,  with  her  customary,  ceremonious 
courtesy  and  "  Je  vous  salue,  Mesdames"  she  left  as 
she  had  entered  by  the  back  door. 

The  messengers  from  the  shop  were  coming  in  now 
with  constant  interruptions  and  ladies  were  being  con 
ducted  through  the  boudoir  on  their  way  upstairs  to  have 
their  dresses  fitted  on. 


102      THE  PEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

"  But  who  are  they  ?  What  are  they  to  be  going  up 
stairs  in  Florette's  shop  ? "  Mrs.  Talbot  wondered  to 
herself.  "  And  to  be  so  excessively,  so  obsequiously 
polite  to  Florette?  '  Madame  Florette  this,  Madame 
Florette  that,  and  I  beg  your  pardon,  Madame/  Since 
when,  I  should  like  to  know,  has  Florette  permitted 
herself  such  air  and  graces  with  customers?  In  old  days, 
she  would  have  been  well  put  down  in  her  place  for  such 
pretensions,  such  cool  impertinence,  in  truth." 

Florette  tied  the  bonnet  on  the  lady  with  her  own 
hands,  sparkling  as  they  were  with  rings,  commenting 
as  she  looked  at  the  reflection  in  the  oval  mirror  draped 
in  rose-colored  cretonne:  "  Altogether  in  your  own  style; 
plain  and  simple  as  you  see,  only  the  absolutely  necessary, 
but  elegant;  a  bow  of  ribbon,  in  truth,  is  all  you  need, 
but  it  must  be  the  proper  ribbon,  and  the  proper  kind  of 
bow.  The  imported  hats!  ...  ah,  bah!  you  can  be 
independent  of  them.  I  know,  I  know,"  nodding  her 
head  significantly,  "  they  are  not  for  such  as  you."  And 
yet  Florette  would  tell  another  customer  that  she  sold 
only  imported  hats  and  that  to  be  without  a  becoming 
bonnet  was  worse  than  to  be  without  a  becoming  soul; 
that  it  was  the  fashion  that  made  the  woman;  that  it 
was  better  to  go  without  bread,  than  the  fashion,  that; 
etc.,  etc.  And  in  spite  of  her  friendliness  with  the  church, 
she  would  shrug  her  shoulders  and  say :  "  What  will  you? 
It  is  God's  affair !  He  created  the  world  and  He  created 
women.  If  He  had  wished  us  otherwise,  He  would  have 
created  us  otherwise.  We  in  fact  are  His  millinery." 

She  placed  their  hats  on  the  little  girls  and  gave  to 
each  her  sunbonnet  neatly  wrapped  in  paper  with  the 
recommendation  always  to  wear  it  in  the  sun  so  as  not 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE  103 

to  get  freckled,  and  presented  each  one  with  a  cornet 
of  bonbons,  tied  with  ribbon.  She  was  patronized  as 
much  for  her  bonbons  as  for  French  fashions,  selling 
them,  however,  only  in  her  own  bonbonnieres  which 
were  as  costly  as  her  bonnets.  But  the  more  they  cost, 
the,  more  eager  were  the  gentlemen  to  buy  them  and  the 
ladies  to  receive  them  on  New  Year's  day,  and  on 
anniversaries. 

It  was  now  three  o'clock,  the  fashionable  hour  and 
the  banquettes,  as  sidewalks  are  called  in  New  Orleans, 
were  well  filled.  The  lane  back  of  the  home  in  St. 
Medard  was  not  brighter  with  reds,  yellows  and  pur 
ples  than  the  street  was  with  the  gay  colors  of  dresses 
and  bonnets.  Ladies  and  gentlemen  were  swarming 
like  bees  in  and  out  of  the  two  confectioner  shops  whose 
cases  of  bonbons,  crystallized  fruits  and  cakes  of  all 
kinds,  and  their  marble-topped  tables,  and  orange  trees 
in  green  tubs,  were  prolonged  indefinitely  by  mirrors 
cunningly  draped  with  curtains  like  windows. 

How  such  places  dwell  in  the  memory!  It  had  been 
one  of  Mrs.  Talbot's  pleasures  on  the  plantation — when 
cruelly  fretted  by  a  spoiled  appetite,  discontented  with 
a  monotonous  fare  of  hominy,  bacon,  corn  bread,  and 
molasses — to  dream  of  the  sorbets  and  biscuits,  cakes, 
pates,  and  bonbons  of  Felix.  And  she  used  to  picture 
herself,  when  all  the  tribulations  of  the  war  were  over 
and  ended  (ended  as  she  always  ended  them  with  the 
triumph  of  the  right  people),  how  she  and  her  friends 
would  drop  into  Felix's  again  and  laugh  and  talk  of 
their  adventures  as  they  would  laugh  and  talk  of  ad 
ventures  at  a  masked  ball,  over  the  supper  table.  But 
it  was  not  she  nor  her  friends  who  were  doing  the 


104      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

laughing  and  talking  now.  She  looked  around,  most  of 
the  men  were  officers  in  uniform.  A  few  months  ago, 
had  they  come  to  the  plantation,  she  would  have  been 
frightened  to  death  at  the  sight  of  them  and  very  likely, 
they  would  have  accosted  her,  pistol  in  hand,  threatening 
to  hang  her  husband  if  they  caught  him ;  and  she  would 
pray  God  to  keep  them  from  ever  catching  him,  or 
burning  her  home  as  they  also  threatened.  And  now, 
she  and  they  were  eating  cakes  at  the  same  counter! 
Silver  half  dollars  were  raining  down  on  the  marble 
counters,  and  the  argentine  laugh  of  the  ladies  fell  as 
richly  on  the  ear.  For  ladies,  when  in  company  of 
officers  in  uniform,  always  seem  to  accentuate  their  joy 
by  much  laughter. 

She  bought  a  bag  of  cakes  to  take  home  with  her  and 
this  was  as  near  as  she  came  to  the  fulfilment  of  her 
dream  on  the  plantation.  But  when  she  was  about  leaving 
the  place  an  unexpected  pleasure  seemed  to  fall  to  her. 
A  smile  came  over  her  face,  the  instinctive  smile  at 
recognizing  a  friend  among  strangers  and  aliens.  Made 
moiselle  Coralie,  it  was,  Mademoiselle  Coralie  Chepe, 
her  old  protegee,  dependent  and  kind  of  nursery  gover 
ness  and  companion,  not  that  she  had  needed  either, 
but  Mademoiselle  Coralie's  troubles  were  at  that  time, 
very  great,  and  her  manner  of  describing  them,  pathetic. 

And,  in  fact,  it  was  her  necessities  not  her  abilities 
that  had  secured  to  Mademoiselle  Coralie  her  position 
— which  included,  besides  a  home  and  a  salary,  all  that 
a  kind-hearted,  rich  friend  is  willing  to  give  to  a  poor 
and  needy  one.  Who,  save  a  friend,  would  have  recog 
nized  Mademoiselle  Coralie  in  a  fresh  silk  dress,  scintil 
lating  with  jet  trimmings ;  her  coquettish  little  head  with 


PEACE,  GENTLE  PEACE  105 

its  crisp,  curling  black  hair  loaded  with  a  bonnet  full  of 
flowers,  her  black  eyes,  brimming  over  with  arch  looks, 
her  full  lips,  with  smiles,  her  dark  complexion,  roseate 
with  cosmetics?  No  one  would  have  supposed,  she  was 
not  pretty,  she  knew  so  well  how  to  convey  the  im 
pression  that  she  was ;  even  a  very  ugly  black  mole  on  her 
cheek  had  been  touched,  up  into  a  kind  of  ornament. 

Her  old  patron  extended  her  hand,  stepping  forward, 
but  before  she  had  time  to  call  Mademoiselle  Coralie's 
name,  she  saw  that  the  lady  was  not  she,  that  is  she  looked 
and  acted  as  a  stranger  would  have  done.  There  was 
no  recognition  in  her  face,  none  at  all,  and  she  turned 
away  with  her  companion,  an  officer  in  uniform. 

"  That  is  very  strange ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Talbot,  in 
voluntarily  aloud :  "  I  was  sure  it  was  she  but  she  was 
dressed  too  fine  for  Coralie." 

It  was  not  so  strange  as  she  found  out  afterward. 


WALKING  THE  RAINBOW 

IN  spite  of  the  careful  attention  of  friends  and  the 
assiduities  of  talebearers,  we  live  in  a  woeful  state  of 
ignorance  as  to  the  true  condition  of  the  sentiments  of 
any  one  about  us.  And  when  we  interrogate  our  own 
judgment,  we  get  no  better  enlightenment,  for  un 
fortunately  we  are  all  addicted  to  the  pleasant  habit  of 
counting  as  friends,  those  whom  we  like;  as  enemies, 
those  whom  we  dislike. 

For  that  reason  alone,  and  only  that  reason,  Mr. 
Talbot's  memory  did  not  carry  Monsieur  Pinseau  as  a 
friend.  The  ridiculous  attempts  at  speechmaking  and 
the  undignified  campaign  activities  in  favor  of  a  political 
trickster,  that  rankled  so  painfully  in  the  Creole  gentle 
man's  remembrances  of  the  past,  did  not  trouble  the 
American  at  all;  but  the  things  that  Monsieur  Pinseau 
passed  over  with  indulgence,  those  were  the  ones  that 
Mr.  Talbot's  memory  recorded  with  unalterable  con 
demnation.  In  his  own  defeat  and  the  triumph  of  the 
rival  candidate,  he  attributed  nothing  whatever  to 
Monsieur  Pinseau  whom  he  frankly  did  not  credit  with 
an  idea  in  his  head  above  fast  living  and  extravagant 
spending  of  his  wife's  money — of,  in  short,  playing  the 
fool,  as  he  called  it  and  of  making  associates  of  men 
who  were  also  given  to  that  pastime.  Which  shows 
among  other  verities,  how  much  more  importance  than 
they  deserve  we  attach  to  our  pitiful  efforts  to  overthrow 

106 


WALKING  THE  RAINBOW  107 

a  good  character  and  reputation.  When  Mr.  Talbot 
heard  his  wife's  report  about  Mademoiselle  Mimi  he  was 
vastly  pleased.  "  All  the  money  in  the  world,"  he  said 
enthusiastically,  "  could  not  procure  better  instruction 
or  instruction  that  agreed  better  with  his  ideas."  It  was 
what  he  had  hoped,  when  he  had  money  with  which  to 
realize  his  hopes.  "  A  lady,"  he  explained,  "  must  furnish 
example  as  well  as  precept  to  her  pupils."  His  objection 
to  most  governesses  and  teachers  was  that  they  were  such 
a  warning  against  themselves ;  generally,  an  ugly,  forlorn, 
disappointed,  and  soured  set  of  women  with  far  more 
of  the  furies  than  the  graces  about  them.  A  teacher 
should  represent  to  a  little  girl  what  she  would  like  to 
be,  for  little  girls  learn  by  imitation  mostly. 

Mrs.  Talbot  never  contested  the  opinions  of  her  hus 
band.  Her  way  of  entertaining  him  was  to  let  him  talk 
to  her  and  to  agree  with  him.  As  for  the  reasons  of 
things,  she  seldom  thought  of  them.  The  things  them 
selves  she  was  wont  to  say  were  as  much  as  she  could 
tackle. 

"  Give  the  little  girls  a  good  model,"  he  continued, 
"  and  the  battle  is  half  won."  He  would  never  allow 
a  daughter  of  his,  to  [emphasizing  his  meaning]  be 
taught  by  a  man,  for  she  would  end  by  trying  to  imitate 
him  and  the  result  would  be  a  hobbledehoy.  Made 
moiselle  could  teach  all  that  it  was  essential  for  a  lady  to 
know ;  that  is,  how  how  to  take  her  place  in  society  and 
maintain  it. 

He  smoked  his  pipe  for  a  few  minutes  in  silence  and 
his  wife  knew  as  well  as  if  he  had  told  her  that  he  was 
thinking  of  those  old  salons  on  Royal,  St.  Louis,  and 
Chartres  streets  where  as  a  young  man  fresh  from  the 


io8      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

University  of  Virginia  he  had  met  the  charming  society 
of  the  ladies  whom  he  had  never  ceased  to  admire  and 
whom  he  had  chosen  as  the  models  for  his  daughters. 

The  only  drawback  he  could  see  in  Mademoiselle 
Mimi's  school,  was  Monsieur  Pinseau.  And  he  charged 
his  wife  not  to  encourage  any  intimacy  between  the  two 
families.  He  himself  had  never  wished  to  know  the 
man;  had  always  avoided  him  and  he  would  not  suffer 
his  children  to  be  thrown  familiarly  into  company  that 
he  disapproved  of.  If  the  world  were  to  be  made  of 
such  as  Monsieur  Pinseau  was  reputed  to  be,  there  would 
be  no  morality  and  no  law  in  it.  He  knew  personally 
nothing  against  him,  except  that  he  went  with  a  set  of 
men  that  flaunted  their  follies  and  so  demoralized  society. 
It  was  always  easier  to  prevent  than  to  break  off.  He 
thought  that  Mademoiselle  Mimi  had  better  be  told  this 
at  the  outset,  firmly  and  frankly ;  then  there  could  be  no 
misunderstanding  in  the  future.  He  confided  to  his 
wife  this  flaming  sword  and  even  instructed  her  as  to 
how  her  delicate  hands  were  to  wield  it. 

"  Do  not  let  your  politeness  get  the  better  of  you.  Be 
firm  and  decided.  There  is  nothing  that  a  mother  should 
be  so  decided  about  as  the  surroundings  of  her  daughters. 
Mademoiselle  Mimi  is  a  sensible  woman  and  she  will 
understand  the  importance  of  maintaining  the  standards 
of  good  society.  A  man  cannot  make  his  assertions  in 
such  matters  as  a  woman  can.  A  man  represents  at 
best  only  intellectual  force,  women,  spiritual."  After  a 
pause  he  continued :  "  If  women  chose,  they  could  rule 
the  world  through  Society.  We  can  better  get  along 
with  a  corrupt  judiciary  than  a  corrupt  Society.  Do 
not  hurt  her  feelings  but  make  your  point  clear.  You 


WALKING  THE  RAINBOW  109 

can  be  clear  enough  when  you  want.  And  you  had 
better  warn  the  children  a  little,  let  them  understand." 

"  Yes." 

"  I  will  depend  upon  you  to  manage  it." 

"  Yes." 

"  Do  it  in  your  time,  and  your  own  way.  Ladies  have 
a  gift  for  such  things.  A  smile,  a  word,  no  more;  but 
what  a  rebuke!  A  volume  couldn't  tell  more,  a  pistol 
shot  be  more  killing." 

He  sank  deep  in  his  reflections,  perhaps  over  some 
such  pistol  shot  in  his  own  memory. 

When  there  was  no  alternative  between  doing  his 
will  and  being  disagreeable,  his  wife  was  forced  to  exer 
cise  some  of  the  gifts  which  she  also  possessed  in  common 
with  the  charming  ladies  of  his  memory.  For  as  much 
as  he  knew  about  them,  she  knew  more.  He  saw  the 
outside  of  their  gifts,  she,  the  inside  machinery.  "  Tell 
a  daughter,"  she  said  to  herself,  "  that  her  father  is  an 
improper  acquaintance  for  little  girls  who  know  nothing 
against  him  and  never  will  know  anything  against  him! 
Make  Mademoiselle  Mimi  understand  that  there  must 
be  no  intercourse  between  the  two  families,  because  in 
short,  my  husband  is  better  than  her  father;  Where? 
Great  heavens!  Where?  In  what  salons  ancient  or 
modern  did  ladies  say  such  things  one  to  another  ?  Per 
haps  in  the  wilds  of  Virginia,  where  my  husband  was 
born,  but  not  here  in  Louisiana,  where,  thank  heaven! 
I  was  born.  If  it  were  the  truth,  which  it  is,  Made 
moiselle  Mimi  would  surely  know  it  better  than  any  one 
else!  How  could  she  help  knowing  it?  What  did  her 
whole  life  mean  otherwise :  her  misfortunes,  her  labor.0 , 
her  unselfish  devotion?  What  did  it  all  mean  to  her  if 


i  io     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

not  just  that?  But  tell  her  so!  Make  her  understand 
it,  which  means  to  make  her  acknowledge  and  confess  it ! 
Mademoiselle  Mimi  would  very  soon  put  an  end  to  any 
such  conversation  as  that!  And  to  save  Society! 
Heavens  above!  Go  around  denouncing  one  another's 
fathers,  brothers,  husbands!  That  would  be  a  feasible 
way  of  saving  it,  eh  ?  What  society  would  be  left  ?  And 
what  woman  would  be  sure  enough  of  her  own  father, 
husband,  brother — aye,  sister  and  even  mother  ?  "  There 
had  been  this  consideration  in  some  families  that  she 
knew  of !  "  Go  around  denouncing  this  one  and  that ! 
No !  No !  Women  maintain  Society  by  just  the  opposite 
plan.  Men  denounce  the  criminal  but  hold  on  to  the 
crime.  Women  denounce  the  crime  but  hold  onto  the 
criminal.  That  is  the  difference  between  them.  And 
Mademoiselle  Mimi  was  right !  A  thousand  times  right ! 
as  a  woman." 

Husbands,  despite  their  convictions,  and  their  superior 
assumptions  to  the  contrary,  have  really  no  advantage 
over  other  men  in  knowledge  of  a  woman's  mind,  or,  in 
short,  of  the  inner  determinations  of  a  wife's  mind. 
They  can  only  know  in  truth,  what  the  wife  chooses  to 
tell  them,  and  a  discreet  wife  often  chooses  to  limit  her 
communications  of  this  kind.  Wives  for  example,  such 
as  Mr.  Talbot  admired  in  the  old  salons,  who  were  as 
unlike  missionaries  as  one  can  possibly  conceive.  They 
were  not  women  to  brandish  moral  swords !  They  were 
women  on  the  contrary,  like  Mademoiselle  Mimi. 

So  Mrs.  Talbot  was  quite  clear,  in  this  at  least,  that 
Mademoiselle  would  be  talked  to  as  her  husband  directed 
at  the  Greek  Calends  and  not  before. 

The  bright  glow  of  sunset  shone  in  the  sky.    It  bright- 


WALKING  THE  RAINBOW  in 

ened  the  spire  of  the  little  church  and  seemed  almost 
to  give  a  golden  tone  to  the  thin,  weak  voice  of  the 
Angelus  bell.  A  few  oranges  still  glittered  amid  the 
dark  foliage  of  the  hedge,  the  sour,  bitter  kind, — not  the 
sweet  ones  whose  flowers  so  poetically  used  to  symbolize 
the  hopes  of  brides.  ^And  the  old  garden,  as  an  old  face 
does  sometimes  from  inward  illumination,  flushed  under 
the  golden  and  rose  light  of  the  sky,  into  a  flicker  of  its 
pristine  witchery  and  beauty.  The  children  were  scat 
tered  through  it,  fondling  and  caressing  it,  as  if  indeed 
it  were  an  old  face.  , 

"  I  have  never  worked  for  anything  in  my  life  that 
I  did  not  get  it  in  the  end."  The  husband  spoke  medi 
tatively  from  another  mile-stone  in  his  thoughts.  This 
was  true,  but  his  wife  had  never  heard  him  say  so  before. 
There  never  had  been  any  need  to  say  it  before.  It  was 
taken  for  granted.  Now? 

"  But  you  worked  hard  for  what  you  wanted/'  she 
responded  quickly  with  her  sure  instinct  of  affection. 
"  It  was  always  said  about  you,  that  you  were  the  hardest 
working  young  lawyer  at  the  bar.  I  always  remember  a 
story  Papa  told  about  you.  He  was  passing  your  office 
once  in  the  middle  of  Winter,  long  past  midnight  and 
seeing  a  light  in  your  office ;  all  the  other  windows  were 
black,  he  went  upstairs  to  see  if  anything  were  the  matter, 
opened  the  door,  and  there  you  were  over  your  books, 
dressed  just  as  you  had  come  from  some  dinner-party  or 
ball." 

"'Well,  Talbot,'  he  said  disgustedly,"  her  husband 
took  up  the  story  with  a  laugh,  "  '  you  must  love  work.' 
'  Love,'  I  answered,  '  I  love  it  better  than  meat  and 
bread.'  " 


ii2      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

His  face  showed  his  satisfaction  at  the  memory  of 
it.  She  possessed  the  art  of  recalling  such  things 
and  repeating  them  appropriately.  Her  memory  was 
a  treasury  to  her.  She  never  forgot  a  face,  a 
name,  a  good  deed,  a  pleasant  speech  or  a  humorous 
incident. 

'  Yes,"  her  husband  repeated,  with  gusto,  "  I  always 
loved  to  work.  I  cared  in  fact  for  nothing  in  life  that 
I  did  not  work  for.  What  a  man  makes  up  his  mind 
to  work  for,  he  can  obtain,"  he  added  confidently.  And 
then  he  began  to  explain  his  plans  again  to  her.  Any  one 
could  understand  them,  they  were  so  simple  and  natural. 
It  was  true  he  had  lost  a  fortune;  everything  he  had 
worked  for  and  gained  since  he  had  been  a  lawyer — 
and  he  did  not  count  in  this  what  he  should  have  in 
herited  from  his  father  who  had  died  during  the  war  and 
whose  estate  had  been  settled  in  Confederate  money. 
He  counted  as  his  own  only  what  he  had  made,  and  no 
man  had  made  more  or  larger  fees  than  he.  He  called 
over,  as  lawyers  never  tire  of  doing,  his  cases  in  the  past 
and  the  briefs,  the  "  historic  briefs "  he  called  them, 
that  he  had  written.  Having  saved  his  library,  he  said, 
was  the  greatest  piece  of  good  fortune  that  could  happen 
to  him  or  any  lawyer.  If  that  had  been  lost,  he  would 
have  considered  himself  unfortunate.  The  loss  of  his 
plantation  would  have  been  nothing  in  comparison  to  it. 
With  its  accumulation  of  private  notes  and  records,  it  was 
perhaps  the  most  complete  in  the  city,  he  knew  he  would 
not  have  exchanged  it  for  any  he  had  ever  seen.  And 
he  was  lucky  too  in  having  his  same  old  office.  He  could 
take  up  just  where  he  had  left  off  four  years  ago  and 
as  far  as  he  could  see,  it  was  only  a  question  of  work 


WALKING  THE  RAINBOW  113 

with  him,  to  catch  up  on  the  losses  of  the  war.  Fortu 
nately,  litigation  could  not  be  captured,  confiscated  or 
burned.  "  The  fact  is,"  he  concluded,  with  a  frank 
laugh,  "  if  there  is  any  important  lawsuit,  there  are  four 
or  five  of  us  who  are  bound  to  be  retained  on  one  side 
or  the  other." 

The  only  change  he  would  make  from  former  plans, 
was  that  instead  of  sending  his  sons  to  the  University 
of  Virginia,  as  he  had  intended,  he  would  put  them  to 
work  just  as  soon  as  they  knew  enough  of  the  requisites 
— that  is  Latin,  Greek,  and  mathematics,  with  sufficient 
science  for  respectability;  which  was  far  more  than 
the  greatest  Americans  had  started  with  fifty  years  ago. 
If  there  was  anything  in  the  boys,  they  could  get  along 
on  the  education  he  was  able  to  give  them.  If  they  could 
not  get  along  on  that,  it  was  a  pretty  good  sign  they 
would  not  get  along  on  a  better.  The  daughters  would 
suffer  less  in  education,  for  they  could  learn  easier,  all 
that  ladies  needed  to  know,  and  take  more  time  over  it. 
He  had  always  counted  on  giving  each  one  her  dower 
when  she  became  of  age  so  that  she  could  marry  or  not 
just  as  she  chose.  He  had  seen  some  unfortunate  young 
girls  marry  for  money,  some  literally  for  the  means  of 
living.  A  dower,  he  feared,  would  be  beyond  his  reach 
now.  The  consequences  of  the  war  would  fall  heavier  on 
the  women  than  on  the  men.  The  lives  of  the  men  would 
be  changed  comparatively  little.  But  the  women  ...  it 
was  slavery  alone  that  had  kept  them  from  domestic 
drudgery  ...  he  shook  his  head,  and  repeated,  "  do 
mestic  drudgery  added  to  family  duties."  He  smoked  his 
pipe  a  moment  and  continued  with  a  new  variation  of  his 
subject,  his  wife  listening  without  assent  or  dissent,  look- 


ii4      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

ing  through  his  telescope  whichever  way  he  wanted; 
either  end  the  right  one  for  her. 

He  ran  over  the  list  of  his  friends  who  like  him  had 
broken  away  from  all  that  had  constituted  life  to  them 
to  go  into  the  war.  As  he  gave  the  name,  his  wife's  ready 
memory  supplied  her  usual  pleasant  addenda  of  reminis 
cences;  how  they  used  to  like  this  one  and  that  one,  and 
how  this  one  and  that  one  used  to  like  him  and  praise 
him  to  her,  and  all  sorts  of  other  items  in  connection  with 
his  friends  that  he  had  forgotten ;  tossing  over  her  little 
memories,  and  rummaging  in  them  as  she  once  would 
have  done  in  her  great  bureau  drawer  of  scraps!  And 
like  the  ladies'  scraps  of  that  time  her  bits  from  memory 
were  all  of  beautiful  quality:  silk,  velvet,  brocade,  real 
embroidery,  real  lace;  buttons  and  buckles  that  looked 
like  jewelry,  ribbons,  ostrich  and  marabout  feathers,  all 
too  pretty  to  throw  away  but  so  useless  to  keep  except 
as  souvenirs.  The  duel  that  he  had  prevented,  the  ugly 
family  quarrel  he  had  stopped,  a  reconciliation  between  a 
husband  and  wife  bent  on  divorce,  the  last  will  and 
testament  he  had  turned  from  resentment  into  forgive 
ness  of  injuries,  and  how  he  had  always  stood  by  the 
unfortunate.  There  was  not  a  friend  or  client  he  could 
name  that  she  could  not  connect  with  some  personal 
obligation.  It  was  only  the  good  lawyer's  usual  show 
ing  at  that  time  and  the  wife's  usual  version  of  his 
services;  services  that  only  lawyers  and  their  wives  en 
hance  with  any  glamor  of  sentimental  obligation;  for  a 
lawyer's  clients  have  no  such  glamor  in  their  view  of  the 
transaction. 

But  it  was  a  pleasant  review  and  a  drawer  of  scraps 
that  any  lawyer's  wife  would  be  glad  to  own.  Even 


WALKING  THE  RAINBOW  115 

old  Benton,  millionaire  and  miser  that  he  was,  had  owned 
to  her  that  the  beginning  of  his  great  fortune  was  laid 
when  Talbot  was  a  young  law  student,  and  he,  Benton,  a 
porter  carrying  bundles  of  goods  on  his  back  up  and 
down  four  and  five  flights  of  stairs.  And  there  was 
Tommy  Cook,  whom  he  had  picked  up  out  of  the  gutter, 
for  he  could  never  see  a  bright  boy  run  to  waste  without 
stretching  out  his  hand  to  prevent  it  ...  and  .  .  . 
and  .  .  .  friends,  friends,  friends,  wherever  they  looked 
in  the  past  they  saw  friends  and  not  an  enemy.  For 
according  to  the  pleasant  weakness  already  mentioned, 
they  saw  in  the  past  none  to  whom  they  were  not  friendly ; 
forgetting,  of  course,  contradictory  experiences. 

"  I  shall  let  Tommy  Cook  keep  his  desk  in  the  office." 

"What  does  he  want  with  a  desk  there?"  the  wife 
asked  innocently. 

"  Well,  not  to  black  shoes  on,  you  may  be  sure. 
Tommy  is  a  lawyer  now." 

"  How  can  he  be  a  lawyer?  " 

"  By  study  and  work  like  other  men." 

"  But  I  always  thought  that  lawyers  had  to  be  gentle 
men.  I  have  never  known  a  lawyer  who  was  not  a 
gentleman." 

"  You  have  been  very  lucky  then,"  he  answered  dryly. 

There  was  silence  between  them  for  a  moment,  and 
then  he  took  up  the  fallen  thread  of  conversation  again. 
"  He  has  a  pretty  good  practice  already.  He  gained  a 
suit  for  Benton  the  other  day." 

"What!  did  Benton  employ  him?" 

"  He  needed  a  lawyer  and  Tommy  is  about  as  decent 
a  one  as  he  could  find.  He  has  been  associated,  at  least, 
with  the  bar." 


ii6     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

"  Yes,  as  bootblack." 

"  Some  of  the  others  wouldn't  have  made  even  decent 
bootblacks;  butlers,  and  camp  followers,  mostly." 

She  looked  disgusted  but  said  nothing. 

"  What,"  she  asked,  brightening  with  a  sudden  inspira 
tion,  "  what  has  become  of  the  Riparian  case  ?  " 

Always  before,  that  is  before  the  war  that  had 
separated  them  from  their  past;  in  their  talks  about  the 
future,  they  would  discuss  this  case.  She  had  completely 
forgotten  it!  What  a  prominent  object  it  had  always 
been  in  her  husband's  horizon!  For  years  his  ambition 
had  rested  on  it.  It  was  to  be,  in  his  eyes,  the  master 
piece  of  his  profession,  to  give  him  fame  throughout  the 
legal  world.  He  used  to  say  that  if  he  never  gained 
anything  else  but  that  one  case  he  would  have  secured 
wealth  for  himself  and  his  children,  so  far-reaching 
would  be  the  effects  of  a  favorable  decision.  The  fee 
was  contingent,  but  he  was  as  sure  of  getting  it,  he  used 
to  say,  as  he  was  sure  the  heavens  would  not  fall. 

From  the  time  that  he  had  been  called  to  the  bar  he 
had  aimed  at  that  case,  he  had  studied  and  worked  his 
way  into  it  with  such  consummate  patience,  and  legal 
keenness,  that  he  was  considered  the  only  man  in  the 
city  who  had  a  perfect  record  of  it  in  his  mind.  It  was 
as  much  his  own  as  any  piece  of  property  he  could  have 
bought.  No  matter  when  it  was  opened,  now  or  twenty 
years  hence,  it  could  not  be  opened  without  his  appearing 
in  it  as  principal  counsel. 

"How  strange!  thought  the  wife,  "that  everything 
else  should  give  way  in  the  South — government,  states 
rights,  social  order — and  that  a  great  war  should  be 
fought  and  thousands  of  lives  lost,  and  a  mere  question 


WALKING  THE  RAINBOW  117 

of  the  city's  Riparian  rights  should  survive!  That  like 
a  lighthouse  it  should  still  be  standing  after  the  storm 
that  has  strewn  the  shore  with  wrecks !  "  This  led  her 
to  ask  about  their  friend  Dalton  who,  having  studied  law 
in  her  husband's  office,  had  been  employed  in  some  minor 
capacity  in  this  very  Riparian  case. 

"Dalton?  Oh,  Dalton  went  into  the  war  a  private, 
and  has  come  out  a  major." 

"  Well,  is  he  any  more  human  ?  any  less  like  a  fish — 
cold  and  slippery  ?  ' 

As  she  had  done  about  the  Riparian  case,  her  husband 
might  well  have  wondered  how  such  an  idle  and  futile 
prejudice  could  survive  the  fierce  tempest  that  had  almost 
engulfed  the  National  Government,  and  wrecked  its 
apparently  indestructible  fortunes.  He  answered  quietly : 
"  He  is  very  much  improved  in  appearance  and  seems 
full  of  energy.  He  will  stay  in  my  office  and  use  my 
library  until  he  is  able  to  set  up  an  independent  establish 
ment." 

A  click  of  the  gate's  latchet  caused  them  to  raise  their 
heads  and  look  in  that  direction,  and  as  they  saw  who 
was  coming  down  the  walk  toward  them,  both  exclaimed : 
"  Harry  Linton !  "  Both  stepped  forward  to  meet  him ; 
the  aunt  repeating  with  a  glad  smile,  "  Harry !  Harry ! 
I  was  thinking  about  him  only  today,"  She  had  not  seen 
him  since  he  waved  his  cap  in  good-bye  to  her  from  the 
car  window  when  his  company  left  for  Virginia :  the 
gay,  young  nephew,  who  had  lived  with  them  while  he 
studied  law  with  his  uncle,  whom  she  loved,  it  may  be 
said,  for  his  faults,  for  he  had  made  no  display  of  the 
family  virtues.  He  was  still  boyish-looking,  and  had  still 
the  same  old  irresistible  expression  of  friendliness  and 


ii8      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

good  humor  on  his  round  freckled  face  and  in  his  blue 
eyes,  and  his  light  hair  stood  out  as  it  used  to  in  thick 
curls  over  his  head.  The  only  change  was  a  long  ugly 
scar  that  extended  over  one  side  of  his  face,  from  fore 
head  to  chin,  cutting  across  an  eye.  He  looked  taller  and 
showed  the  effect  of  drilling  in  his  bearing  but  he  was 
still  shorter  than  his  uncle  by  a  full  head. 

They  drew  their  chairs  together,  the  children  clustering 
on  the  steps  in  good  hearing. 

"Well,"  said  his  uncle,  "what  are  you  doing?" 

"  No,  no,"  protested  the  aunt.  "  He  must  begin 
from  the  time  he  left  us  and  tell  us  all  his  adventures. 
I  want  to  hear  the  whole  story  from  beginning  to 
end." 

The  young  fellow  laughed  and  told  hurriedly  how, 
after  he  was  wounded  in  Virginia  he  had  been  sent  back 
to  Louisiana  to  recuperate,  and  then  had  been  transferred 
to  the  Louisiana  command  where,  in  a  desperate  fight 
on  Red  River,  a  small  company  tried  to  delay  the  advance 
of  the  Federal  army,  which  they  succeeded  in  doing; 
how  he  received  his  wound  in  the  face,  and  was  insensible 
when  he  was  taken  prisoner  and  brought  to  New  Orleans. 
After  he  was  discharged  from  the  hospital  he  was  kept 
in  prison  until  peace  was  declared.  The  children  crowded 
upon  one  another  to  get  nearer  to  him  while  he  talked 
along  in  his  gay,  bright,  reckless  way. 

"  As  soon  as  I  could  get  out  of  the  city,"  he  continued, 
"  I  started  for  home.  I  hadn't  heard  a  word  from  my 
people  for  a  year  and  didn't  know  anything  about  them 
except  that  they  had  taken  refuge  in  Texas — you  know 
our  place  was  just  on  the  line  of  Banks's  march." 

His  uncle  nodded. 


WALKING  THE  RAINBOW  119 

"  And  then,  and  then?  "  his  aunt's  voice  quivered  with 
impatience. 

"  The  chimneys  are  still  standing  and  that  is  all  that 
was  left  to  show  that  there  had  been  a  human  habitation 
there." 

"Oh!  Oh!"  wailed  the  aunt,  "that  beautiful  old 
house !  That  fine  plantation !  " 

Harry  was  too  much  amused  at  the  story  to  come  to 
waste  time  on  the  lament.  He  threw  his  head  back  and 
laughed  as  at  a  joke. 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  family  come  back ! 
I  was  lucky  enough  to  get  there  the  day  before.  I 
camped  during  the  night  in  the  shelter  of  my  ancestral 
ruins,  that  is  in  the  furnace  of  the  sugar  house;  there 
were  not  enough  ruins  of  anything  else  to  shelter  a 
cat,"  laughing.  "  I  knew  they  would  come  straight  to 
the  place  as  quick  as  they  could  travel,  and  I  had  a 
presentiment  that  that  would  be  about  as  quick  as  I  could 
get  there  from  the  city.  Well,  I  was  standing  in  front 
of  my  furnace,  looking  about  for  something  to  look  at, 
when,  here  they  came,  just  about  dusk !  First  a  broken- 
down  buggy  tied  with  rope,  drawn  by  a  limping  horse. 
Elizabeth  was  in  it  with  Heatherstone.  Behind  them 
came  a  little  cart  with  a  kind  of  cover  over  it,  drawn  by 
an  old  gray  mule.  Mother  drove  that  and  it  seemed 
filled  with  children,  their  heads  stuck  out  in  all  directions 
like  chickens  in  a  basket." 

All  laughed  with  him  at  this  picture. 

"  Heatherstone  was  shot  all  to  pieces  at  Mansfield, 
you  know.  I  had  heard  that  he  was  wounded  but  I  really 
did  not  know  until  I  saw  him  that  he  had  lost  both  an 
arm  and  a  leg." 


120      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

"  An  arm  and  a  leg !  Oh,  Harry !  "  cried  his  aunt  in 
horror. 

"  Yes,  and  on  the  hand  he  has  left  he  has  only  three 
fingers.  The  thumb  and  forefinger  had  to  be  ampu 
tated." 

"Oh!"    .     .     . 

"  How  does  he  stand  it  ? "  asked  the  uncle,  curtly 
interrupting  the  soft,  sympathetic  voice.  "  He  was  the 
last  man  in  the  country  to  play  the  invalid  with  success." 

"  Invalid !  He  an  invalid !  whew  ..."  Harry 
threw  back  his  head  and  whistled.  "  I  was  fool  enough 
to  think  I  might  say  something  to  him  to  show  a  little 
feeling,  to  express  some  sort  of  sympathy  and  that  sort 
of  thing  about  his  being  a  cripple.  By  Jove," — the  young 
man  jumped  up  to  act  the  scene  for  them — "  he  turned 
upon  me  as  if  I  were  a  Yankee.  '  Damn  it,  Sir !  Do  you 
dare  sympathize  with  me,  Sir?  Damn  your  sympathy! 
I  don't  want  any  man's  damned  sympathy!  Take  your 
damned  sympathy  where  it  is  needed,  Sir!  We  don't 
need  it  here,  Sir.'  " 

He  was  a  capital  mimic  and  did  the  scene  so  well  that 
one  saw  the  tall  gaunt  figure  of  his  Texan  brother-in-law, 
as  well  as  heard  him  snarling  out  his  short  sentences. 
"  '  I  will  let  you  know,  Sir !  I  am  as  good  a  man  now, 
Sir!  as  I  ever  was!  I  can  do  without  my  leg,  Sir,  and 
my  arm,  Sir!  The  Yankees  are  welcome  to  them,  Sir? 
Damn  them!  My  wife,  Sir!  doesn't  need  them  either! 
My  wife,  Sir,  at  this  moment  is  worth  more  than  any 
hundred  damn  Yankees  I  ever  came  across,  Sir!  They 
didn't  shoot  off  her  leg,  Sir,  or  her  arm!  And  you 
needn't  go  offering  her  any  of  your  damned  sympathy 
either,  Sir !  She  doesn't  need  it !  "  And  I  took  his  advice. 


WALKING  THE  RAINBOW  121 

I  didn't  sympathize  any  more  with  any  of  them.  You 
would  never  recognize  Elizabeth.  She  goes  stalking 
about  in  a  pair  of  her  husband's  old  cavalry  boots  and  an 
old  hat  of  his,  and  she  ties  her  skirts  up  to  her  knees 
like  the  negro  women  used  to  do  in  the  fields;  and  she 
wears  a  pistol  stuck  in  her  belt.  In  fact  she  does  every 
thing  she  can  to  make  a  man  out  of  herself,  except  curse 
and  smoke.  And  the  more  of  a  man  she  is,  the  better  her 
husband  likes  it.  The  two  are  always  together;  Mother 
takes  care  of  the  children." 

"  How  is  your  mother  ?  " 

Harry  sat  down  and  laughed  at  this  memory  also. 
"  Mother  is  not  changed  a  particle,  not  a  shade.  She 
goes  stepping  around  in  her  old  faded  calico  dress  and 
sunbonnet,  just  exactly  as  she  used  to  do  at  Princeton 
in  that  ugly  old  India  shawl  of  hers  and  bird  of  Paradise 
bonnet.  She  is  just  as  unbending,  just  as  firm,  just  as 
sure  of  herself,  and  she  keeps  Heatherstone,  that's  the 
eldest  boy,  under  her  thumb  just  as  she  used  to  do  me; 
makes  him  study  of  nights  and  tells  him  what  great 
things  she  expects  of  him,  exactly  as  she  used  to  do  with 
me.  Not  one  of  them  will  own  to  being  hurt  by 
the  results  of  the  war.  They  pooh,  pooh,  their  losses. 
In  fact,  they  live  as  if  the  Yankees  were  watching  and 
listening  to  them  all  the  time,  and  they  will  die  before 
they  gratify  them  with  a  regret.  I  found  out,"  seeing 
that  his  audience  was  waiting  in  silence  for  more  on 
the  subject,  "  that  Mother  and  Sister  had  about  fifty 
dollars  in  gold." 

"  Fifty  dollars  in  gold !  "  his  aunt  exclaimed  in  amaze 
ment  as  if  it  were  a  fortune. 

"  Yes,  fifty  dollars  in  gold." 


122      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

"  How  did  they  manage  to  save  so  much?  " 

'They  didn't  save  it,"  pausing  to  enhance  his  effect, 
"  they  made  it. 

"  Made  it !  "  ejaculated  the  aunt  in  still  greater  amaze 
ment.  "  How  could  they  make  money  ?  " 

"  How  could  they  make  it  ?  "  For  the  first  time  his 
voice  was  grave.  "  Why,  they  were  in  some  God-forsaken 
place  in  Texas  where  the  children  were  hungry  for  food 
and  cold  for  clothes,  and  they  had  to  make  money  or 
beg." 

"  But  what  could  they  do?  " 

"  They  knit,  they  spun,  they  cooked,"  lowering  his 
voice  and  speaking  slower,  "  they  took  in  washing  and 
ironing  and  they  planted  a  little  cotton,  only  a  few  rows, 
for  the  knitting,  you  know,  and  at  the  end  of  the  war 
they  had  a  little  pile  of  it  stuffed  into  their  mattresses. 
Of  course  it  was  as  good  as  gold.  And  when  Heather- 
stone  returned  to  them  he  came  in  a  buggy  with  an  old 
broken-down  army  horse  that  the  commissary  depart 
ment  allowed  him,  as  it  was  the  only  way  he  could  travel. 
The  cart  and  the  mule  he  managed  to  pick  up  somewhere ; 
I  believe  he  gave  one  of  his  pistols  for  them." 

"  How  many  children  have  they  ?  "  asked  his  aunt. 

"  Five,  they  lost  two.  Heatherstone,  the  eldest,  is  a 
fine  boy." 

"  You  did  not  make  up  your  mind  to  stay  with  them?  " 
asked  his  uncle. 

"  The  fact  is,  Uncle,  when  I  went  there,  it  was  to 
stay  with  them  and  work  on  the  old  plantation;  and 
when  I  saw  Heatherstone,  I  was  determined  to  do  so, 
for  I  never  felt  so  sorry  for  people  in  my  life,"  looking 
at  his  uncle  and  then  at  his  aunt,  "  as  when  I  saw  them 


WALKING  THE  RAINBOW  123 

unloading  themselves  from  their  buggy  and  cart.  I 
could  have  stayed  willingly  with  them  and  worked  like 
a  negro  for  them  the  rest  of  my  days.  But  they  wouldn't 
hear  of  such  a  thing;  grew  indignant  at  the  very  idea  of 
it.  Heatherstone  seemed  to  take  it  as  a  reflection  on 
himself  and  Sister,  and  Mother  waxed  eloquent  over 
my  duty  to  become  a  great  lawyer  and  chief  justice  of 
the  state  just  as  she  used  to  do  when  we  all  had  fortunes. 
They  camped  out  that  night,  as  they  had  done  nearly 
every  night  of  their  journey  from  Texas,  but  by  noon  the 
next  day  they  were  having  a  shelter  put  up  around  one 
of  the  old  chimneys.  Heatherstone  and  Elizabeth  had 
gone  out  about  daylight  and  rooted  up  some  of  the  old 
negroes  somewhere,  and  found  the  lumber.  They  said 
they  could  put  up  a  very  comfortable  cabin  for  the  fifty 
dollars  and  began  at  once  to  talk  about  a  garden, 
chickens  and  ten  acres  of  cotton.  I  suppose  Heather- 
stone,  the  boy,  will  do  the  plowing  when  they  get  a 
plow,  and  I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  but  that 
Mother  and  Elizabeth  will  help  in  the  hoeing  and  of 
course  all,  down  to  the  youngest,  will  take  a  hand  in  the 
picking." 

In  spite  of  his  natural  high  spirits  and  his  fondness 
for  laughing  at  his  people,  his  voice  grew  sad.  "  As 
they  didn't  seem  to  have  thought  of  me  in  any  of  their 
plans,  and  in  fact,  so  far  as  I  could  see,  didn't  need  me 
or  want  me,  I  concluded  that  the  thing  for  me  to  do 
was  to  come  back  to  the  city  and  see  if  I  could  not  make 
a  little  money  here.  They  will  need  ready  money  and 
that  badly,  long  before  Spring,  if  I  am  not  much  mis 
taken." 

"  Well,"  said  his  uncle  reflectively,  "  I  do  not  know 


i24      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

but  what  you  are  right.  You  selected  the  bar  for  your 
profession,  studied  for  it  and  were  admitted.  I  do  not 
see  any  good  reason  why  you  should  throw  away  all 
the  time,  work,  and  expense  you  gave  to  it.  Your  four 
years  of  soldiering  ought  not  to  make  you  a  worse 
lawyer,  on  the  contrary,  it  ought  to  make  you  a  better 
one."  He  smoked  a  few  shiffs  from  his  pipe  and  con 
cluded  with :  "  And  I  have  always  thought,  Harry,  you 
ought  to  make  a  pretty  good  lawyer  of  yourself." 

"  I  believe,  myself,"  said  the  young  fellow,  rising, 
"  that  I  could  at  least  make  a  living  for  my  mother  and 
myself  at  it,  if  I  had  a  fair  chance.  There  is  no  telling, 
however,  what  the  outcome  of  all  this  is  going  to  be," 
he  added,  with  rather  a  questioning  look  at  his  uncle. 

"  Oh ! "  was  the  answer,  "  I  fancy,  the  country  will 
soon  settle  down  and  go  to  work  to  repair  the  losses. 
That  is  what  I  am  going  to  do,"  with  a  frank  laugh. 

"  I  had  thought,"  the  young  fellow  hesitated,  glancing 

furtively  at  his  aunt  as  he  used  to  do  in  critical  ventures 

with  his  uncle,  "  I  had  thought  of  trying  something  else 

.     .     .    to  make  money  a  little  quicker.     Times  are 

changed.   .    .    . " 

"  But  we  are  not." 

"  I  don't  know  about  that,  Uncle." 

"  But  I  do  know." 

"  I  might  get  a  clerkship  somewhere." 

"A  clerkship!" 

"  Well,  it  would  give  me  some  money  at  once." 

The  mother  hastily  gathered  her  children  together. 
"  It  is  their  bedtime,"  she  explained  with  a  cheerful  voice, 
but  trying  to  make  her  nephew  see  her  warning  shake 
of  the  head. 


WALKING  THE  RAINBOW  125 

"  He  is  no  wiser  about  getting  along  with  his  uncle 
than  he  was  before  he  went  to  the  war,"  she  said  to  her 
self  as  she  left  the  gallery.  But  looking  back  from  the 
room,  she  saw  the  two  men  walking  together  down  the 
path  to  the  gate,  the  elder  one  turning  his  head  toward 
the  younger  one;  and  she  knew,  as  well  as  if  she  heard 
the  words,  that  some  of  the  funds,  brought  by  the 
herald  of  prosperity,  was  to  be  despatched  at  once,  to 
the  cabin  built  around  the  chimney  on  the  ruined  plantar 
tion. 


d< 

: 


"IT  WAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY  " 

THE  bell  of  the  little  church  roused  Sunday  betimes  in 
St.  Medard.  No  one,  on  that  day  at  least,  heard  the 
trumpet  at  the  barracks.  A  thin,  clanging,  j angling- 
voiced  bell  it  was,  and  Cribiche  rang  it  with  no  more 
sentiment  than  an  overseer  rings  his  bell  on  a  planta 
tion  to  call  the  negroes  to  their  work.  But  to  the  ear 
that  had  been  longing  for  a  church  bell  for  four  years 
and  had  heard  only  the  overseer's ;  to  this  ear,  the  bell  of 
St.  Medard,  seemed  in  comparison  with  all  other  bells 
ever  heard ;  even  as  the  trumpet  of  an  angel  in  compari 
son  with  the  trumpet  of  the  barracks. 

From  the  earliest  hour  of  the  mass,  one  could  hear 
the  voices  of  those  who  were  hurrying  to  get  to  the 
church  and  have  their  duty  over  and  done  for  the  day 
and  for  the  week;  gay  pleasant  voices,  that  made  the 
pebbly  Gascon  French  sound  pretty.  And  if  one  peeped 
through  the  window,  one  could  see  the  men,  women,  and 
children  striding  by  in  their  clean  Sunday  clothes,  hoofed, 
one  might  say  in  their  Sunday  shoes,  for  in  sabots  only 
do  Gascon  peasants  walk  lightly  and  at  their  ease. 

For  mass  after  mass  the  gay  alarum  jingled,  until 
surely,  only  the  dead  of  conscience  as  well  as  of  ear  could 
pretend  to  be  deaf  to  it.  Each  ringing  seemed  to  catch 
a  different  set  of  sinners  or  saints,  the  first  netting  the 
poorest  and  plainest,  and  each  succeeding  one  ever  more 
worthy  game  from  a  worldly  point  of  view.  The  last  one 

126 


"IT  WAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY"  127 

for  high  mass  landing  the  fine  people  in  carriages,  or  those 
who  walked  only  the  shortest  of  distances,  the  ladies,  in 
trailing  dresses,  in  the  most  delicate  of  shoes,  planters' 
families  from  the  lower  coast,  and  the  rich  demoiselles 
San  Antonio.  These  were  the  parishioners  to  whom  Pere 
Phileas  addressed  the  sermons  that  he  gleaned,  it  must  be 
confessed,  from  the  other  classes  of  his  congregation.  He 
was  not  a  brilliant  priest,  as  priests  go,  but  he  knew  as 
well  as  any  Dominican  who  ever  came  from  Paris  to 
preach  the  Lenten  sermons  at  the  Cathedral  that  in 
order  that  those  who  have  ears  should  hear,  one  must 
preach  the  sins  of  the  poor  to  the  rich  and  the  sins  of 
the  rich  to  the  poor.  And  so  it  was  that  the  hard-work 
ing,  the  dairy,  and  gardening  folk  who  rose  at  dawn  to 
get  to  church  for  the  first  mass  furnished  the  spiritual 
exhortation  for  the  leisurely  class,  who  reluctantly  left 
easy  beds  to  catch,  as  they  called  it,  the  last  mass. 

"  Ah,  God !  I  cannot  thank  Thee  as  I  would  here, 
but  when  I  get  home  where  I  can  go  to  church  with  all 
my  children,  then  will  I  thank  and  praise  Thee.  Oh! 
Then  will  I  fill  the  church  with  my  thanksgiving  and 
praise  to  Thee!"  As  Sunday  after  Sunday  rolled  by 
on  the  lonely  plantation,  this  had  been  the  poor  mother's 
vow  to  herself  as  she  strove  with  her  inadequate  words 
to  express  what  was  in  her  heart  toward  the  One  who 
was  leading  her  through  such  a  valley  as,  surely,  she 
thought,  no  woman  with  four  small  children  had  ever 
been  brought  through  safely  before.  Not  a  Sunday 
passed  on  the  plantation  that,  after  hearing  their  cate 
chism  and  verses  and  hymns  she  did  not  remind  the 
children  of  what  the  Sundays  were  at  home,  where  there 
were  churches  and  Sunday-schools. 


128     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

When  the  lessons  were  over,  and  she  and  the  children 
would  start  for  their  Sunday  morning  walk,  the  little  girls 
would  still  cling  to  her  and  beg:  "Please,  Mama,  tell 
us  some  more  about  your  Sundays  at  home,"  while  the 
boys,  of  course,  took  no  interest  in  them  but  were  always 
trying  to  slip  away  on  their  own  adventures.  The  Sun 
day  walk  was  always  the  same,  along  the  road  by  the 
Bayou  to  the  woods.  She,  herself,  was  always  afraid  of 
the  woods.  Her  terror  was,  that  in  some  incomprehen 
sible  way,  she  would  wander  in  it  out  of  sight  of  the 
Bayou  and  thus  lose  her  clue  to  the  direction  of  the 
home;  or  that  one  of  the  children  in  their  frolics  would 
run  away,  out  of  sight  and  hearing,  and  get  lost.  But 
she  cunningly  concealed  her  fears  for  she  never  allowed 
the  children  to  suspect  that  she  was  afraid  of  anything; 
one  of  her  husband's  theories  being  that  women  were 
as  brave  as  men.  She,  therefore  never  went  far  into  the 
woods ;  and  she  could  always  hold  the  children  and  their 
attention  while  she  turned  them  homewards  by  telling 
them  still  more  about  anything  she  remembered,  it  made 
no  difference  what.  She  could  tell  an  interesting  story  as 
well  about  one  person  as  another  and  she  could  tell,  not 
only  her  own  stories  but  those  her  mother  had  told  to  her, 
which  she  had  heard  from  her  grandmother,  stories  that 
began,  some  of  them,  in  the  emigration  of  the  Hugue 
nots  to  this  country,  or  the  Revolutionary  War,  and  all 
sorts  of  hair-breadth  escapes  of  Continentals  from  Tories. 

On  the  rare  occasions,  when  the  father  was  along, 
he  would  tell  them  hunting  stories,  for  he  had  been  a 
great  hunter  in  his  youth;  and  the  walk  with  him  as 
guide  would  go  far  into  the  woods  to  the  coulee,  a  slug 
gish  drain  from  the  swamp  whose  glassy  black  water 


"  IT  WAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY  "  129 

held  no  end  of  turtles  and  deadly  moccasins.  Even 
the  youngest  of  the  children  had  been  taught  not  to  fear 
these  last,  however,  but  to  kill  them  boldly  with  a  blow 
on  the  back  of  the  head.  In  the  Autumn,  they  would 
walk  to  a  grove  of  persimmon  trees,  where,  if  there 
had  been  frost  the  night  before,  the  ground  would  be 
covered  with  ripe  fruit,  both  the  large,  full  round  pink 
persimmons,  shaded  with  lilac,  and  the  deep  red  ones 
that  when  dried  in  the  sun  tasted  like  prunes — the  kind, 
that  as  the  father  related,  the  Indians  dried  and  pounded 
and  made  nice  bread  or  cake  of.  In  his  youth,  out  of 
which  he  could  draw  as  many  wonderful  stories  as  Mama 
out  of  hers,  he  used  to  go  hunting  with  the  Indians,  and 
often  spent  weeks  with  them  in  their  villages,  as  many 
young  men  of  his  day  preferred  doing  instead  of  travel 
ing  to  civilized  centers.  From  the  Indians  he  learned  all 
sorts  of  curious  forest  lore :  the  habits  of  trees,  the  tracks 
of  animals,  medicinal  herbs,  and  subtle  ways  of  telling 
the  points  of  the  compass  by  the  bark  of  the  trees;  all 
of  which  he  taught  the  children. 

In  the  Spring,  the  walk  would  be  to  the  sandy  spot 
on  the  Bayou's  bank  where  the  alligators  laid  their  eggs. 
He  always  knew  the  very  Sunday  when  the  sand  would 
be  marked  by  their  tracks,  and  following  the  tracks  find 
the  spot  where  the  eggs  had  been  laid  and  covered. 

Always  on  coming  back  from  their  Sunday  walk  they 
would  go  the  rounds  of  the  quarters,  stopping  first 
invariably  at  the  cabin  of  old  Aunt  Patsy,  the  most 
venerable  negro  on  the  plantation.  Her  cabin  stood  apart 
from  the  others  and  she  lived  by  herself :  a  silent,  morose 
old  woman,  but  after  the  master  and  mistress  the  most 
respected  person  on  the  place.  Often  when  the  mistress 


130     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

was  surcharged  with  anxiety,  she  would  go  and  talk  with 
Aunt  Patsy,  and  never  came  back  without  being  eased, 
or  without  remarking,  how  Aunt  Patsy  seemed  to  know 
everything  about  life.  On  Sundays  she  was  always 
found  ready  to  receive  her  visitors  sitting  in  her  low 
white  oak  chair  covered  with  deer  skin.  She  wore  a 
cap,  the  only  negress  on  the  place  who  did  so,  a  broad 
ruffled  white  cotton  cap,  tied  under  her  chin.  Very 
black  she  was;  thin  and  wrinkled  and  with  front  teeth 
that  stood  out  like  tusks.  On  account  of  her  age,  she 
was  exempt  from  work,  but  she  was  always  busy,  never 
theless,  spinning  the  finest  and  best  knitting  cotton  and 
doing  the  fastest  and  prettiest  knitting.  She  had  no 
relations,  had  never  borne  a  child,  and  her  husband  had 
been  dead  so  long  that  he  had  become  merely  a  tradition 
on  the  place.  A  boy  had  been  assigned  to  the  duty  of 
cutting  wood  and  fetching  water  for  her,  and  this  was  her 
only  connection  with  her  fellow  slaves.  When  she  died, 
her  funeral  was  made  a  great  event.  And  afterwards  the 
negroes  and  the  white  children  following  their  supersti 
tions  (as  white  children  never  fail  to  do)  in  passing  her 
cabin  always  looked  to  see  if  she  might  not  be  still  sitting 
there  "  anyhow  "  as  they  said. 

The  other  negroes  in  the  quarters  would  be  sitting  in 
front  of  their  cabins;  the  babies,  washed  and  dressed, 
lying  in  their  mothers'  or  fathers'  arms,  their  bright  alert 
eyes,  glancing  around  and  their  little  hands  grabbing  at 
the  flies  in  the  air.  The  other  children,  in  their  clean 
cotonades,  with  bare  legs  and  feet  well  scrubbed,  would 
be  running  around  after  the  chickens — that  is  the  hap 
piest  of  them — the  others  would  be  wedged  in  the  vise 
of  a  parent's  knees,  while  their  stubborn  hair  was  being 


"IT  WAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY"  131 

carded,  divided  and  wrapped  into  stiff  wisps  with  white 
knitting  cotton.  Here  and  there,  stretched  out  in  the 
sun  the  half -grown  boys  would  be  lying  asleep,  worn 
out  with  the  exhaustion  of  having  nothing  to  do. 

After  the  greetings  there  would  be  talk  of  the  weather, 
and  the  crops,  and  gossip  about  the  animals.  Sometimes 
a  group  of  men  would  be  gathered  on  Jerry's  gallery 
"  passing  the  time  of  day/'  as  they  called  it,  in  dis 
cussion  generally  about  the  cause  of  things — such  as 
the  changes  of  the  seasons,  the  revolution  of  the  sun 
or  God's  ways.  And  when  the  master  was  along,  he 
would  step  in  and  join  them  and  answer  their  questions 
and  make  explanations;  until  all  the  other  negro  men 
would  drift  in  too;  and  their  wives  following  would  sit 
around  on  the  edge  of  the  gallery  to  enjoy  the  enter 
tainment,  commenting  freely,  and  guffawing  aloud  at 
the  good  retorts,  as  each  man  put  his  oar  into  the  con 
versation  whenever  he  got  a  chance.  Meanwhile  the 
mistress  and  the  little  girls  would  continue  their  walk  to 
the  house  and  the  little  boys  make  off  with  their  black 
followers  at  their  heels  upon  some  adventure,  that  seemed 
to  be  innocent,  but  always  turned  out  to  be  mis 
chievous 

All  this  train  of  reminiscence  was  put  in  motion  as 
the  car  jolted  and  rumbled  along  on  the  way  to  church. 
Still,  the  memories  of  the  plantation  forming  the  back 
ground  of  thought  in  the  city,  as  the  memories  of  the 
city  had  formed  the  background  of  thought  on  the 
plantation !  Mrs.  Talbot's  face  brightened  with  pride  as 
well  as  love,  at  the  sight,  at  last,  of  her  church.  The 
sacred  edifice,  which  during  the  week  seemed  to  sink 
into  the  ground  completely  lost  from  sight  in  the  busy 


132      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

whirl  of  life,  rose  commandingly  enough  on  Sunday 
when  the  shop  windows  were  shut  and  barred  and  the 
merry-go-round  of  fashion-seekers  turned  off.  Its  only 
rival  was  the  drinking  shop  on  the  corner.  And  blatant 
and  brazen  though  this  was  on  week  days,  it  hung  its 
head  sadly  enough  in  shame  on  Sundays,  as  if  it  knew 
then  what  it  really  was — not  a  drinking  but  a  drunkard 
shop.  How  could  it  look  otherwise  with  the  fine  old 
church  casting  its  judgment  day  sentence  upon  it  and 
with  the  stream  of  people  passing  under  the  granite 
portal,  with  that  same  judgment  day  in  their  minds? 

With  her  children  following  her,  the  mother  made  her 
way  quickly  to  her  old  pew,  just  as  she  had  pictured  to 
herself  doing  so  often  in  the  past.  She  could  have  gone 
to  it  blindfolded.  A  lady  was  in  it  who  looked  with 
haughty  surprise  at  the  intrusion  and  moved  away  to  the 
end  of  the  seat.  She  looked  for  the  old  books  in  the 
rack ;  they  were  no  longer  there.  When  the  service  began 
it  recalled  her  to  where  she  was ;  but  over  and  over  again 
she  asked  herself  whether  she  were  not  still  on  the  planta 
tion,  in  the  war  and  only  dreaming  she  was  in  church, 
gazing  at  the  window  that  as  a  child  she  had  looked 
upon  as  a  sign  in  the  sky.  .  .  . 

But  no,  this  was  not  her  memory  on  the  plantation! 
this  was  not  what  she  saw  there  on  Sundays,  far  far 
different  from  it !  That  was  not  her  old  minister's  face 
and  figure  that  ever  since  she  could  remember  she  had 
seen  in  the  pulpit ;  whose  voice  had  humanized  the  gospels 
and  epistles  to  her.  Looking  around,  she  saw  none  of 
the  starts  of  surprise  and  quick  cordiality  of  eyes,  that 
had  made  the  charm  of  the  plantation  anticipation.  She 
saw  in  the  old  places  only  drooping  women,  in  mourning 


"IT  WAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY"  133 

or  shabby  clothes,  and  no  men  that  she  knew.  When  the 
service  was  over,  there  was  no  hurrying  forward  with 
outstretched  hands  of  welcome.  Instead  of  that,  the 
imperious  lady  in  the  pew  showed  unmistakable  signs 
of  impatience  at  her  lingering  and  brushed  past  her  with 
scant  courtesy.  And  then  she  saw,  that  the  name  on  the 
pew  had  been  changed,  her  father's  and  grandfather's 
name  was  no  longer  where  it  had  been  since  the  church 
was  built.  As  in  flight,  she  hurried  out  a  side  door  and 
passed  through  the  small  churchyard  which  still,  unlike 
the  pew,  held  the  name  of  her  grandfather  on  a  tablet. 
She  did  not  linger  to  point  it  out  to  her  children,  and 
read  the  honorable  inscription  on  it,  as  she  had  antici 
pated  doing  with  pride  on  the  plantation ;  but  rushed  out 
the  gate  to  the  car  that  took  her  away  not  so  much  from 
her  past,  as  from  the  future  of  that  past. 

When  the  early  Sunday  dinner  was  over  and  a  long 
afternoon  lay  before  them,  the  family  went  out  for  the 
walk  that  always  filled  such  afternoons  on  the  planta 
tion.  The  mistress,  going  first  to  give  a  direction  to  the 
servants,  found  Jerry  and  all  his  family  sitting  on  their 
gallery,  in  their  Sunday  clothes,  silent  and  dejected. 

"Haven't  you  been  out  at  all  today,  Jerry?"  she 
asked. 

"  Yes,  Mistress,  I  went  out  for  a  little  while." 

"  We  are  going  to  walk  on  the  levee  to  see  the  river, 
why  don't  you  all  go  too  and  sit  out  there?  " 

"  I  have  been  there,  Mistress." 

"  We've  all  done  seen  the  river,"  added  Matilda. 

"  But  now  you  will  see  all  the  people  passing." 

"  It's  no  use  seeing  people,  Mistress,  if  you  don't  know 
them." 


134     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

"  Well,  but  talk  to  them  and  you  will  learn  to  know 
them." 

Matilda  shook  her  head  gloomily. 

"  Isn't  there  any  church  somewhere  tonight  that  you 
can  go  to? " 

"  I  don't  know,  Mistress,"  answered  Jerry  indif 
ferently. 

"  But  you  could  ask  some  one." 

"  We  don't  know  nobody  to  ask,"  Matilda  retorted 
crossly. 

"  Oh !  you  may  be  sure  there  is  a  church  somewhere 
hereabouts,  that  you  can  go  to.  Wherever  there  are 
darkies,  there  is  a  church,  you  know." 

"  Church  ain't  nothing,  without  you  know  the  niggers 
in  it." 

The  four  girls  sat  around  stolidly  without  a  word. 

"  But  Laura,  Henrietta,  Julia,  and  Maria  would  like 
to  go  out ;  take  them  to  the  levee." 

"If  it's  good  enough  for  Jerry  and  me  here,  it's 
good  enough  for  them."  Matilda  looked  at  them  with 
ill-temper. 

They  had  evidently  all  been  quarreling  and  there 
was  nothing  to  do  except  leave  them  alone.  But 
the  Mistress's  kind  heart  was  smitten  by  their  forlorn 
appearance. 

"  They  are  homesick  for  the  plantation,"  she  told  her 
husband. 

"  And  for  some  hard  work,"  he  answered.  "  I  told 
Jerry  he  must  find  something  to  do.  He  is  no  more  ac 
customed  to  idleness  than  I  am.  A  good  carpenter  ought 
to  be  able  to  make  good  wages,  and  there  can  hardly  be 
a  better  carpenter  for  plain  work  in  the  city.  And  he 


"IT  WAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY"  135 

must  put  the  girls  to  work,  they  ought  to  make  at  least 
their  food  and  clothing." 

"If  they  are  made  to  work,  they  will  work.  Dennis 
has  had  them  hoeing  regularly  with  the  field  gang." 
Dennis  was  the  negro  foreman  who  replaced  the  white 
overseer  when  he  went  to  the  war.  "  And  as  soon  as 
they  were  large  enough  to  balance  a  bucket  of  water  on 
their  heads  they  carried  water  to  the  field  hands." 

"  Well,  there  is  plenty  of  work  for  them  in  the  city ; 
they  will  have  to  be  taught,  of  course,  but  there  is  no 
reason  why  they  cannot  learn,"  the  husband  said  in  his 
decided  tone.  "Julia  is  stupid  but  she  is  steady;  Hen 
rietta  is  bright,  she  will  learn  easily;  but  she  will  turn 
into  a  rascal.  .  .  .  " 

"  Oh!  do  you  think  so?  "  This  was  said  in  the  tone 
of  the  past  days  when  masters  and  mistresses  took  upon 
themselves  the  failures  of  character  in  a  slave.  "  What 
are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ? " 

"  I  ?  I  have  nothing  to  do  about  it.  That's  Jerry's 
affair  now." 

"  But  what  can  Jerry  do  unless  you  are  behind  him  ?  " 

"  Jerry  comes  of  good  stock  and  has  been  well  brought 
up  and  he  ought  to  know  what  to  do  by  himself." 

"Yes,  but  Jerry  was  trained  by  a  master;  if  Jerry 
were  a  master.  .  .  .  "  The  levee  rising  in  front,  a 
tall  green  rampart,  interrupted  them.  They  climbed  the 
wooden  steps  laid  against  the  steep  side  and  on  the  top, 
stopped  to  look  at  the  river,  not  yet  as  habituated  to  it,  as 
were  the  other  saunterers  from  the  neighborhood,  who, 
stretching  their  necks  and  laughing  and  talking  to  one 
another,  noticed  it  no  more  than  the  public  road  inside 
the  levee.  The  great  yellow  stream  rolled  majestically 


136     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

along;  awful  in  its  portent  of  power  and  fatefulness. 
Down  the  center  of  its  swift  current  ran  a  glittering 
way,  shot  into  the  brilliancy  of  polished  jewels,  by  the 
sun's  rays.  Dim  and  vague,  like  a  foreign  land,  the 
opposite  bank  lay  across  the  vast  width  of  water. 

As  usual,  the  father  strode  on  ahead,  the  captain. 
His  wife  followed  next,  now  walking  fast  to  keep  up 
with  him,  now  slow  so  as  not  to  leave  the  children 
behind;  her  head  ever-turning  to  look  ahead,  and  then 
to  look  behind  her;  her  feet  tripping  and  stumbling  in 
her  uneven  path  and  attention.  The  little  path  made  a 
subservient  detour  around  a  plateau  shaded  with  trees, 
where  the  officers  of  the  barracks  lounging  on  benches, 
were  smoking  and  playing  with  their  dogs.  Behind 
them,  facing  the  road,  stood  the  heavy-looking  red  brick 
Spanish  buildings  of  the  barracks,  with  its  towers,  from 
whose  loopholes  protruded  the  grim  muzzles  of  cannon. 
Sentries  paced  in  front,  squads  of  soldiers  were  marching 
around  inside,  booted  and  spurred  cavalrymen  were 
galloping  up  and  away  from  the  gateway — at  whose 
posts  horses  bridled  and  saddled  were  hitched  in  readi 
ness  for  an  alarm.  The  river,  itself,  was  not  more  fate- 
fully  portentous  in  its  aspect.  But  out  of  sight,  it  quickly 
went  out  of  mind  and  the  "  nature,"  as  Madame  Joachim 
called  the  country,  that  succeeded,  was  in  no  wise  akin 
to  it  in  mood.  In  truth,  it  seemed  as  merry  and  convivial 
to  the  eye  as  the  spirits  of  the  holiday-makers,  in  the 
dusty  road:  the  bands  of  boys  returning  from  hunting 
or  fishing  frolics ;  negro  men  and  women,  in  their  gaudy 
Sunday  finery  and  gaudy  Sunday  boisterousness ;  noisy 
Gascons  with  their  noisy  families  packed  in  little  rattling 
milk  or  vegetable  carts;  antique  buggies  and  chaises, 


"  IT  WAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY  "  137 

with  their  shabby-looking  horses  or  mules,  filled  with 
voluble  French  chatterers;  and  every  now  and  then, 
shining  new  traps  behind  spanking  teams  driven  by  gay 
young  officers  who  looked  neither  to  the  right  nor  left — 
greeting  no  one,  greeted  by  no  one.  Sprawling  on  the 
river-side  of  the  levee  and  hidden  from  view,  parties 
of  white  and  negro  soldiers  were  playing  cards  or 
throwing  dice,  or  lying  outstretched  on  the  grass  asleep 
or  drunk. 

Built  so  as  to  face  the  river  and  dominate  it  by  their 
elegance,  as  the  barracks  did  by  its  fierceness,  stately 
mansions  of  the  ancien  regime  succeeded — memorials  of 
a  day  when  the  city's  suburb  of  the  elite  was  expected  to 
grow  down  stream;  and  specimens  of  the  elegant  archi 
tecture  that  is  based  on  the  future  stability  of  wealth 
— massive  brick  and  stucco  structures  surrounded  with 
balconies,  upheld  by  pillars  sturdy  enough  to  support  the 
roof  of  a  church;  with  ceremonious  avenues  shaded  by 
magnolias  or  cedars  leading  up  to  great  gardens  whose 
flower  beds  were  disposed  around  fountains  or  white 
statuettes.  And  after  these,  unrolling  in  the  bright  sun 
light  like  a  panorama  to  the  promenaders  on  the  levee, 
came  the  plantations,  the  old  and  famous  plantations  as 
they  used  to  be  reckoned,  whose  musical  French  and 
Spanish  names  bespoke  the  colonial  prestige  of  their 
owners.  Hedges  of  wild  orange,  yucca  or  banana 
screened  the  fences,  but  every  now  and  then  the  thick 
foliage  was  pierced  by  little  belvideres ;  from  whence  the 
soft  voices  of  women  and  the  laughter  of  children — 
sitting  within,,  to  enjoy  the  view  and  breezes  of  the  river, 
— would  fall  like  songs  of  birds  from  cages  upon  the 
road  below.  Or  out  on  the  levee,  itself,  the  families 


1 38      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

would  be  gathered  in  little  pavilions,  sitting  in  pleasant 
sociability,  as  the  families  of  these  plantations  had  been 
doing  for  generations,  looking  at  the  river  and  at  the 
pleasant  view  also  of  their  own  possessions :  mansion, 
quarters,  sugar  house,  brick  kiln,  fields  of  sugar  or  corn, 
pastures  studded  with  pecans,  cherry  trees,  or  oaks, 
smithies,  warehouses, — some  of  the  buildings  and  appur 
tenances  as  aged-looking  and  out-of-date  as  the  great- 
grandmothers  in  their  loose  gowns,  reclining  in  their 
rocking-chairs  in  the  pavilions  gazing  with  the  pensive- 
ness  of  old  age  at  the  swift  and  sure  current  of  the 
river. 

At  one  place  the  stream  had  undermined  its  bank  and 
swallowed  up  a  huge  horseshoe  of  land,  taking  levee  and 
road  with  it.  A  new  levee,  whose  fresh  earth  crumbled 
under  the  feet,  had  been  thrown  up  around  the  breach; 
and  a  new  road  run,  curving  boldly  into  the  privacy  of  a 
garden,  or  the  symmetrical  furrows  of  a  field.  A  half- 
mile  beyond,  the  river  seemed  to  drop  its  booty  of  soil 
seized  above,  and  was  forming  a  new  bank;  the  batture, 
as  it  is  called,  could  be  seen  shoaling  up  bare  and  glisten 
ing  wet,  far  outside  the  levee. 

"  There !  "  the  father  stopped  suddenly,  and  turning 
his  back  to  the  river,  pointed  with  fine  dramatic  effect 
in  the  opposite  direction,  his  face  beaming  with  pleasure 
at  the  culmination  of  his  carefully  guarded  surprise. 
"There  it  is!  The  field  of  the  Battle  of  New  Orleans! 
That  is  the  monument !  " 

As  he  glanced  down  to  see  the  effect,  he  could  behold 
the  glow  from  his  face  reflected  in  each  little  face  looking 
up  to  him,  as  the  glow  of  the  sunset  had  been  reflected  in 
the  surface  of  the  river.  And  yet  what  could  be  more 


"  IT  WAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY  "  139 

commonplace  to  these  children  than  a  battlefield?  What 
else  had  they  heard  of  for  years  but  of  winning  and 
losing  battles?  Each  one  of  the  little  band  was  surely 
qualified  to  say  "  Whatever  my  ignorance  about  other 
things,  I  at  least  know  war."  But  now,  it  was  as  if  they 
knew  it  not.  Their  eyes  were  gleaming  and  their  little 
hearts  beating  as  at  the  sight  and  sound  of  martial  glory 
too  great  for  earth  to  bear — the  martial  glory  of  poetry 
and  history,  not  of  plain  every-day  life!  Breathless, 
they  ran  down  the  levee  after  their  father,  looking,  as  he 
looked,  nowhere  but  in  front,  where  rose  the  tall  shaft 
that  commemorated  the  famous  victory.  Faster  and 
faster  he  strode,  and  they  after  him,  until  they  reached 
the  steps  of  the  monument  and  climbing  up,  could  look 
over  the  land  roundabout ;  seeing  only  a  bush  here,  a  tree 
there,  a  house  in  the  distance  and  still  farther  away  the 
line  of  the  forest.  A  bare,  ugly,  desolate  scene  enough, 

but  not  so  to  the  little  band 

"There  were  the  British  headquarters!  There  Jack 
son's!  Along  there  ran  the  ramparts!  In  that  swamp 
were  the  Kentuckians!  There,  next  the  river,  the  Bar- 
ratarians!  Away  over  there,  hidden  by  the  woods,  the 
little  bayou  through  which  the  British  army  came  from 
the  lake  to  the  river !  Across  that  field  advanced  Paken- 
ham !  Over  there  he  fell !  Up  the  levee  came  Lambert ! 
Out  there  on  the  river  was  the  Carolina  firing  hot  shot 
and  shell!  Down  the  road  we  have  been  walking  ran 
the  reinforcements  from  New  Orleans !  "  The  fine  old 
story  sped  on  and  on.  .  .  .  As  he  talked  the  little 
boys  stretched  themselves,  taller  and  taller,  and  looked 
before  them  with  the  swaggering  insolence  of  Barra- 
tarians  looking  at  the  English,  and  the  little  girls'  heads 


140     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

rose  higher  and  stiffer  and  they  curled  their  lips  dis 
dainfully  at  the  foe,  as  ladies  do  in  triumph. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  monument,  stood  Polly's 
friend  of  the  car,  the  old  gentleman  who  looked  like 
General  Lee,  listening  rather  wistfully.  .  .  . 

"  The  British  marched  up  to  the  line  of  death  as  if 
they  were  on  dress  parade,"  the  father  continued  his 
historical  lesson,  "  and  they  died  in  their  ranks  as  they 
marched.  When  the  smoke  lifted,  and  when  the  Ameri 
cans  saw  them  lying  in  regular  lines  on  the  field, — the 
brave  red  uniforms,  and  the  dashing  Tartans  of  the 
Highlanders, — a  great  sigh  went  down  the  line,  a  sigh  of 
regret  and  admiration.  ..." 

Polly's  sharp  eyes,  roving  around,  had  detected  the 
old  gentleman.  Running  to  him,  she  caught  his  hand 
and  drew  him  forward.  The  movement  was  so  frank 
and  hearty,  that  neither  he  nor  the  parents  could  resist 
it  and  at  once  they  entered  into  cordial  acquaintanceship 
with  one  another. 

He  was  so  tall  and  erect  of  figure,  so  noble  of  face,  so 
soldierly  in  his  bearing,  that  the  civilian  clothes  he  wore 
were  a  poor  disguise.  One  knew  at  once,  rather  than 
guessed,  that  he  had  been  an  officer  and  had  worn  the 
gray,  and  that  in  short,  he  was  one  of  the  ruined  and 
defeated  Southerners. 

"  My  father,"  he  said,  as  he  came  forward,  "  was  one 
of  the  Kentuckians." 

"  Was  he  ?  "  exclaimed  the  mother  enthusiastically. 
" '  A  hunter  of  Kentucky/  '  And  with  a  smile  and  a 
toss  of  the  head,  she  gave  the  refrain  "  '  Oh,  the  hunters 
of  Kentucky.'  My  grandfather  sang  the  song  at  dessert 
on  every  anniversary  of  the  battle.  And  my  grand- 


"  IT  WAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY  "  141 

mother  used  to  say  that  they  were  the  handsomest  men 
she  ever  saw,"  glancing  involuntarily  at  the  stranger, 
who  in  this  regard  was  every  inch  a  Kentuckian,  "  as 
they  came  marching  down  Royal  Street,  in  their  hunt 
ing  shirts  and  coonskin  caps  with  the  tails  hanging  down 
behind/' 

"  Sharpshooters  every  man  of  them,"  interjected  her 
husband,  "  hitting  a  squirrel  in  the  eye,  on  the  top  of  the 
tallest  tree."  .  .  . 

"  She  said,"  continued  the  wife,  "  that  there  were  no 
men  in  the  city  to  compare  with  them  and  all  the  young 
ladies  fell  in  love  with  them  and  used  to  dream  of  them 
at  night;  rifles,  hunting  shirts  and  all.  Oh,  the  women 
looked  upon  them  as  deliverers.  You  remember  the 
motto  of  the  British  ?  "  .  .  .  She  paused,  and  as  no  one 
answered  went  on :  "  My  grandmother  said  the  ladies  all 
carried  daggers  in  their  belts,  and  as  they  sat  together 
in  each  other's  houses,  scraping  lint  and  making  bandages, 
they  would  talk  of  what  they  would  do  in  case  of  the 
British  victory.  And  one  day  they  became  so  excited 
that  they  sent  a  messenger  to  General  Jackson,  and  he 
answered  like  the  hero  he  was,  '  The  British  will  never 
enter  the  city  except  over  my  dead  body.'  "...  And 
still  no  one  took  up  the  conversation,  so  she  carried  it  a 
step  farther :  "  My  grandfather  never  approved  of 
General  Jackson's  course  after  the  battle,  but  she,  my 
grandmother  always  defended  him.  She  could  never 
forgive  my  grandfather  for  not  casting  his  vote  for  him 
for  president,  she  vowed  if  she  had  had  a  hundred  votes 
she  would  cast  them  all  for  him." 

The  stranger  laughed  heartily. 

"  After  the  battle,  you  know,  the  ladies  all  drove  down 


i42     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

to  the  field  in  their  carriages  carrying  their  lint  and 
bandages,  and  refreshments  for  the  wounded,  .  .  .  and 
they  brought  back  the  wounded  British  officers  with  them 
and  took  them  in  their  homes  and  nursed  them.  My 
grandmother  had  one,  a  young  boy  not  over  eighteen, 
and  so  fair  that  he  looked  like  an  angel,  she  said.  He 
was  a  gentleman  of  good  family.  But  all  the  British 
officers  were  gentlemen,  of  course ;  and  the  young  ladies 
lost  their  hearts  to  them,  as  they  had  done  before  to  the 
Kentuckians.  For  years  afterwards,  Grandmama's 
prisoner  used  to  write  to  her." 

"  Would  you  have  liked  them  as  well,  if  they  had 
whipped  you  ?  "  the  stranger  asked  with  a  twinkle  in 
his  eye. 

"  Whipped  us !  They  never  could  have  done  that ! 
We  would  have  burned  the  city !  We  would  have  fought 
from  house  to  house!  We  would  have  retired  to  our 
swamps!  No!  We  never  would  have  surrendered  the 
city."  And  then  as  the  absurdity  of  these  old  hereditary 
boastings  came  to  her  in  the  light  of  the  present,  she 
stopped  short  and  laughed  merrily,  "  that  is  the  way  we 
used  to  talk." 

They  walked  back  slowly  to  the  levee  and  mounted  to 
the  path  on  top  just  as  a  large  vessel  slowly  steamed 
upstream.  The  children  read  out  the  name  on  the  stern. 
It  was  from  Liverpool. 

The  sun  was  sinking  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  river 
amid  clouds  of  gorgeous  splendor.  The  vague  green 
bank  came  now  into  clear  vision  with  its  plantation  build 
ings,  its  groves,  and  its  people  walking  like  ants  upon 
its  levee.  The  rippling  current  and  every  eddy  along 
the  bank  shone  in  unison  with  the  sky  or,  indeed,  as  if 


"  IT  WAS  A  FAMOUS  VICTORY  "  143 

another  sun  were  burning  under  its  depths.  The  great 
steamship  passed  into  the  circle  of  illumination  and  out 
of  it,  as  the  little  group  watched  it  from  the  levee. 

"  I  should  be  ashamed  to  come  here,  if  I  was  them, 
wouldn't  you  ?  "     Folly's  clear  voice  broke  the  solemn 
silence  as  she  twitched  the  hand  of  the  old  gentleman, 
with  free  camaraderie. 
"Ashamed?     Why?" 
"  Because  we  whipped  them  so." 
"  Whipped  them !    Oh !    You  mean  the  British  in  the 
battle." 

"  Yes,  we  whipped  them  right  here,  where  they  have 
to  pass  by.     I  wouldn't  like  that,  would  you?" 
"  Perhaps  they  don't  know  it  on  the  ship." 
"  Don't  know  it !     I  reckon  everybody  knows  when 
they  are  whipped.    I  would  hate  to  be  whipped,  wouldn't 
you?" 

"  I  used  to  hate  it  when  I  was  whipped." 
"  Oh !  I  don't  mean  that !    I  mean  in  battle.    If  I  were 
a  man  I  would  never  be  whipped." 

"  What  would  you  do  if  the  other  army  were  stronger." 
"  I  don't  care  if  it  were  stronger,  I  would  whip  it." 
The  path  on  top  of  the  levee  following  the  bending 
and  curving  banks  produced  the  effect  of  a  meandering 
sunset.  Now  it  shone  full  opposite,  now  it  glowed 
obliquely  behind  a  distant  forest,  now  the  burning  disk 
touched  the  ripples  of  the  current  straight  ahead,  and  the 
British  vessel  seemed  to  be  steering  into  it.  Another  turn 
and  it  had  sunken  halfway  down  behind  the  distant  city, 
whose  roofs,  steeples,  chimneys,  and  the  masts  of  vessels, 
were  transfigured  into  the  semblance  of  a  heavenly 
vision  for  a  brief,  a  flitting  moment.  Further  on  the 


144     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

bank  turned  them  out  of  sight  of  it  all, — and  shadows 
began  to  creep  over  the  water, — and  when  next  they 
saw  the  West,  the  sun  had  disappeared,  and  all  its 
brilliant  splendor  with  it.  In  the  faint  rose  flush  of  twi 
light  beamed  the  evening  star  ...  far  away  from  the 
little  church  of  St.  Medard  came  the  tinkling  bell  of 
the  Angelus  ...  the  evening  gun  fired  at  the  barracks. 


TOMMY   COOK 

OUT  of  the  office,  out  of  the  library,  down  the  stairs 
and  out  into  the  street  again,  Tommy  Cook  saw  himself 
descending  and  his  little  star  of  fortune  with  him. 

"  Ah,  God !  In  jest  and  mockery,  I  played  the  thing 
I  felt." 

If  he  had  known  the  quotation,  he  could  have  used  it 
aptly  on  himself,  although,  instead  of  a  gladiator,  he 
had  been  playing  only  the  role  of  a  lawyer. 

Once  more  he  sat  at  his  little  table  in  a  corner  of  Mr. 
Talbot's  law  office  copying  documents  and  hunting  up 
authorities.  The  men  who  came  in  and  went  out  of  it, 
talked  as  freely  behind  his  back  as  if  he  were  not  there 
and  took  no  notice  of  him  except  as  of  yore,  to  send  him 
out  on  errands. 

The  masters  of  the  State  were  back  again.  And  al 
though  they  were  but  little  better  than  prisoners  in  it 
and  although  at  any  moment,  and  through  any  window, 
they  could  see  reminders  of  their  condition  in  the  shape 
of  passing  squadrons  of  soldiery  and  gangs  of  freed 
slaves,  arrogant  and  insolent;  although  the  chief  of  their 
Confederacy  was  still  in  jail,  and  all  their  officers  dis 
franchised;  and  although  they  had  to  confess  their  past 
offenses  and  ask  pardon  before  their  late  opponents, 
(like  God),  would  grant  forgiveness  of  them;  although 
their  land  was  devastated,  their  property  destroyed,  and 
their  business  extinguished ;  although  their  ranks  showed 

145 


146     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

black  gaps  where  once  stood  well  loved  companions, 
sturdy  men  and  fellow  props  of  the  community;  and 
although  they,  themselves,  many  of  them  were  maimed 
of  limb,  and  all  of  them  maimed  of  members  of  their 
family ; — they  talked  as  if  they  meant  still  to  be  masters 
of  the  State. 

How  short  a  time  the  war  had  lasted!  It  seemed  to 
Tommy  Cook  but  a  season  ago,  hardly  long  enough  for 
the  wearing  out  of  the  fine  new  uniforms  they  were 
dressed  in,  since  these  gentlemen  had  departed  with  their 
commands,  breathing  glory  and  State  rights,  taking  their 
negro  valets  along  with  them  to  wake  them  up  in  the 
morning,  and  bring  them  their  coffee,  and  put  the  gold 
buttons  in  their  fine  linen  shirts.  They  were  dressed 
shabbily  enough  now!  Not  as  well  as  Tommy  Cook 
himself ;  but  as  he  observed,  they  did  not  seem  to  know  it 
any  more  than  the  one-armed  and  one-legged  knew  their 
condition. 

They  will  rise  up,  he  predicted,  drawing  his  figure  from 
the  only  literature  he  knew — the  adventures  of  the  buc 
caneers  of  the  Gulf — "  they  will  rise  up  the  first  chance 
they  get  and  seize  their  ship  again  and  make  every  one 
of  those  on  deck  now  walk  the  plank."  In  his  experience, 
the  recapture  of  their  ship  had  never  been  a  difficult  feat 
for  pirates.  He  had  done  it  with  them  many  and  many 
a  time  in  imagination.  All  that  they  did  was  to  wait 
until  their  captors  got  to  carousing  over  the  spoils  and 
relaxing  into  the  easy  carelessness  of  the  triumphant. 
By  the  time  the  right  moment  of  weakness  came  to  them, 
the  dissensions  and  wounds  of  the  captives  were  gener 
ally  healed,  and  it  was  only  a  question  of  knocking  down 
the  first  man,  seizing  his  arms,  killing  the  second,  and  so 


TOMMY  COOK  147 

on — until  the  former  carousers  were  in  the  hold  of  the 
vessel  or  in  the  hold  of  the  sea;  for  unless  they  could 
make  partners  of  their  prisoners,  wise  pirates,  as  all 
amateurs  of  the  black  flag  know,  never  failed  to  make 
fish  food  of  them.  And  so  it  happened  in  truth.  The  re 
turned  Confederates,  who  had  neither  harps  left  nor 
willows  to  hang  them  on,  were  no  sooner  in  the  safe 
possession  of  their  conquerors  than  they  began  to  plot 
for  their  own  political  deliverance,  and  that  of  their 
State.  They  had  found  her  on  their  return,  under  the 
segis  of  a  new  constitution — a  very  different  one  from 
that  they  had  amended  by  the  adoption  of  the  ordinance 
of  secession,  when  they  took  the  State  with  them  out  of 
the  Union.  A  contrite  and  repentant  constitution  the 
new  one  was;  that  abjured  secession  and  forswore  the 
Confederacy;  that  praised  God  for  the  Union  and  sang 
hallelujah  to  it  in  every  preamble  of  every  resolution; 
that  tested  by  an  iron-clad  oath  as  it  was  called — so  im 
pregnable  was  it  against  the  Confederates — every  mem 
ber,  every  officer,  every  hireling  in  its  pay ;  that  in  short, 
as  far  as  a  constitution  could  effect  it,  made  the  State  as 
obedient  to  the  hand  that  wielded  it,  as  the  command 
ant  General's  own  sword.  It  could  hardly  be  otherwise ; 
as  it  was  the  General  who  had  ordered  the  election, 
chosen  the  governor,  fixed  the  election  laws  and  devised 
the  constitution  to  be  adopted;  who  had  indeed,  in 
Tommy  Cook's  language,  created  the  new  government 
as  much  as  God  had  created  Adam  and  Eve. 

But  when  the  war  ended,  and  the  disbanded  soldiers 
were  coming  back  with  amnesties  for  the  past  in  their 
pockets  and  only  an  oath  for  future  loyalty  to  the  Union, 
as  defined  by  the  results  of  the  war,  on  their  consciences 


1 48      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

— then  was  to  be  seen  in  all  its  crudity  by  the  military 
commander  the  impossibility  of  making  constitutions  for 
absent  citizens,  or  after  bringing  a  horse  to  the  water, 
of  making  him  drink  as  anyone  else  but  he  himself 
wished.  It  was  not  the  military  commander,  however, 
who  was  responsible  for  this  ignorance  about  horses; 
it  was  the  President  who  knew  of  no  better  way  of 
bringing  the  conquered  sisters  back  into  the  newly  united 
State  than  by  summoning  the  people  of  them  to  resume 
their  civic  duties ;  and  by  an  election  confirm  all  that  had 
been  done  for  their  national  regeneration. 

Tommy  Cook  was  too  astute  a  politician  not  to  foresee 
what  would  ensue. 

What  the  Gulf  and  its  pirates  were  to  Tommy  Cook, 
constitutional  law  was  to  the  men  who  talked  so  freely 
behind  his  back  in  the  office.  They  knew  every  device, 
piratical  or  otherwise,  that  politicians  were  wont  to 
practise  upon  opponents;  and  clumsy  pirates  indeed,  so 
they  jeered,  were  the  ones  who  had  made  the  constitu 
tion  they  found  established  on  their  return. 

The  war  that  had  dispossessed  them  of  so  much  had 
left  all  their  old  boldness  intact  and  their  wits  as  keen 
as  ever.  That  so  long  as  war  does  this  it  is  no  good  as 
war  was  an  obvious  truth  to  Tommy  Cook.  It  was  no 
hard  matter  for  such  men  to  get  hold  of  the  arsenal  of 
the  ship,  that  is  the  legislature  of  the  State;  and  it  was 
not  long  before  they  were  throwing  overboard  their  late 
captors,  with  all  their  sanctimonious  adjurations,  prayers 
and  preambles;  stripping  the  penitential  shift  from  the 
state  and  kicking  the  test  oath  out  of  the  way;  paying 
in  their  proceedings  as  little  regard  to  the  commanding 
General  as  he  had  done  to  them  in  his  proceedings.  And 


TOMMY  COOK  149 

Louisiana,  (a  State  is  in  truth  all  things  to  all  men) 
so  lately  cowering  and  whimpering  at  the  foot  of  the 
conqueror,  assumed  the  haughty  air  of  one  of  her  own 
duelists  worsted  on  the  field  of  honor,  paying  as  a  debt 
of  honor,  merely,  the  terms  imposed  upon  her  by  her 
defeat,  namely — passing  the  required  legislative  acts; 
abolishing  slavery;  repudiating  the  Confederate  debt; 
and  swearing  allegiance  to  the  constitution  of  the  United 
States  as  interpreted  by  the  victorious  side.  But  as 
no  one  underpays,  so  no  one  overpays  a  debt  of  honor, 
and  beyond  the  actual  terms  of  surrender,  the  State  did 
not  propose  to  go. 

And  now  masters  of  their  craft,  the  whilom  captives, 
like  thrifty  pirates,  began  to  look  around  them  and  steer 
their  course  in  search  of  new  fortunes  wherewith  to 
repair  their  past  discomfitures  and  losses.  And  never,  in 
Tommy  Cook's  opinion,  never  in  history  of  pirate  or 
memory  of  lawyer,  had  such  prizes,  in  the  shape  of  cases, 
sailed  the  sea  of  litigation.  Peace  had  lifted  the  stay 
law  that  for  four  years  had  arrested  judicial  proceedings 
all  over  the  country;  and  the  pent-up  accumulation  of 
business  was  sweeping  through  the  old  legal  channels 
like  the  Mississippi  in  an  overflow  through  its  outlets; 
carrying  with  it,  like  the  same  turbid  waters  of  the 
Mississippi  in  an  overflow,  the  disjecta  membra  of  the 
wreckage  of  every  form  of  human  property,  every  variety 
of  legal  dispute — claims  of  neutrals  for  damages  for 
property  destroyed,  for  seizure  of  cotton  whose  value 
had  risen  from  five  cents  to  a  dollar  a  pound,  a  four 
years'  harvest  of  successions  to  be  opened,  rights  of  aliens 
to  deposits  confiscated  in  banks,  of  minprs  clamoring 
for  justice  against  martial  defraudment;  old  debts  to  be 


150     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

collected  or  resisted,  interventions  of  foreign  creditors 
or  owners  to  be  adjudicated,  old  accounts  which  for 
generations  had  been  dragging  their  ball  and  chain  of 
debt  and  interest  between  plantation  and  counting  house 
to  be  closed,  and  new  ones  opened ;  new  mortgages  on  the 
land  and  its  profits,  new  contracts  to  be  made  between 
the  now  unshackled  labor  and  the  now  shackled  capital. 
Hardly  a  man,  woman,  or  child  walked  the  streets  but 
was  a  party  in  some  lawsuit  or  other.  And  from  the 
results  of  the  war,  its  sedimentary  deposit  as  it  were, 
seeds  of  future  lawsuits  and  financial  complications 
were  already  germinating;  seeds  strange  and  foreign 
to  State  and  city,  like  the  sproutings  of  plants  not 
indigenous,  but  whose  seeds  had  been  brought 
down  by  the  Mississippi  from  another  soil  and 
climate. 

Every  lawyer,  therefore,  in  fancied  political  security 
went  to  work  hunting  up  clients  and  cases.  The  many 
who  had  no  offices  or  libraries  crowded  the  offices  and 
used  the  libraries  of  the  few  who  had  been  lucky  enough 
to  save  them.  From  their  dusty  hiding  places,  there  was 
a  taking  and  shaking  out  of  each  one's  old  business  some 
pieces  of  the  time-worn  and  justice-scarred  veterans  of 
litigation  that  had  followed  the  steps  of  the  State  from 
the  beginning  of  her  history;  relics  of  other  wars  and 
other  dominations — disputed  titles  and  boundary  lines; 
contested  marriages  and  questionable  filiations  that  had 
been  handed  down  from  generation  to  generation  in  all 
their  foul-smelling  scandal,  the  el  dorado  of  all  young 
lawyers  and  limbo  of  old  ones ;  the  gigantic  land  claims 
involving,  as  the  Riparian  case,  vast  interests  and  fees 
that  meant  permanent  wealth ;  all  were  being  gotten  ready 


TOMMY  COOK  151 

to  be  taken  into  court  with  their  monstrous  baggage  train 
of  papers  behind  them. 

Tommy  Cook's  portion  of  it,  as  he  saw  without  a 
doubt  in  his  mind,  would  be  what  it  had  been  in  the  past 
— to  carry  law  books  to  court  or  briefs  to  the  printer, 
copying  documents  and  hunting  up  authorities — the 
portion  of  a  scullion  in  the  ship.  "  What  he  had  done 
for  his  patron,"  he  might  have  reflected,  "  others,  more 
wisely  perhaps,  had  done  for  themselves ; "  and  when 
the  absent  patron  returned  from  the  war,  he  might  have 
found  what  Mr.  Talbot  had  found  "  in  re  McKenzie,"  as 
Tommy  Cook  put  it,  that  is  a  breach  of  trust. 

Sometimes  a  client  of  his  would  come  mounting  the 
stairs  boldly,  and  open  the  door  without  knocking  and 
enter  the  room,  as  clients  did  with  him;  but  at  the  sight 
of  the  masterful  gentlemen  talking  so  eloquently  within, 
a  quick  retreat  would  be  beaten;  and  Tommy  after  a 
little  while  would  rise  and  follow  him  into  the  street 
and  find  him  waiting  at  a  corner,  with  some  piece  of  law 
business  hidden,  as  it  were,  under  his  coat;  and  they 
would  hurry  to  some  barroom  to  hold  a  quick  consulta 
tion,  and  Tommy  would  return  with  the  piece  of  business 
hidden  under  his  coat,  and  sit  again  at  his  table  in  the 
corner,  more  reflective  than  ever. 

There  was  indeed  as  much  work  ahead  of  the  lawyers 
at  the  opening  of  peace  as  there  had  been  fighting  at  the 
opening  of  war;  and  they  were  as  keen  for  work  now 
as  they  were  for  fighting  then.  But,  unfortunately,  they 
underrated  the  resources  and  abilities  of  their  opponents 
in  peace  as  much  as  they  had  underrated  them  in  war,  as 
much  indeed  as  the  latter  underrated  the  resources  and 
abilities  of  the  Confederates  in  political  humiliation. 


152      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

What  was  the  loss  of  a  State  to  the  masters  of  Con 
gress;  the  loss  of  a  vessel  to  those  who  have  a  fleet  at 
their  back?  Hardly  had  the  late  occupants  of  the  hold 
of  their  ship  time  to  clean  their  conquered  deck,  and  cast 
their  eyes  about  them,  as  had  been  said,  "  in  search  of 
future  fortune,"  when  from  every  quarter  of  the  horizon, 
they  saw  the  ships  of  their  late  foes;  every  State  of  the 
Union  bearing  down  upon  them  as  one  ship.  The  con 
test  was  short,  and  decisive.  This  time,  not  only  was 
their  State  taken  from  them  but  their  Statehood  also; 
and  the  terms  of  the  first  surrender  paled  into  insipidity 
before  what  was  now  imposed.  And  then,  those  sneer 
ing  adepts  of  constitutional  law,  assembling  daily  in  Mr. 
Talbot's  office,  saw  a  constitutional  ingenuity  and  dex 
terity  displayed  by  their  despised  opponents,  that  they 
in  their  arrogant  ignorance  never  wotted  of.  Indians, 
so  they  said,  never  used  their  tomahawks  with  more  re 
fined  skill  against  their  bound  prisoners — grazing,  slicing, 
drawing  blood,  striking  as  near  as  they  could  without 
taking  the  life  that  afforded  the  pleasure  of  torture — 
than  did  Congressmen  use  the  keen  blades  of  their  wits 
against  the  constitution  of  their  country;  until  that 
"  sacred  Ark  of  the  Covenant  " — as  Southerners  vener 
ated  it — maimed,  lopped,  and  mutilated,  was  turned  to 
their  astonished  eyes,  into  an  armed  citadel  against  them ; 
pierced  with  rifle  holes,  for  the  firing  of  pains  and  penal 
ties  at  them.  And  now  the  whips  of  serpents  became 
whips  of  scorpions  on  the  backs  of  the  Southerners. 

Louisiana  was  made  once  more  a  military  department ; 
a  Union  General  was  once  more  put  in  command;  all 
elective  offices  were  declared  vacant ;  negroes  were  given 
the  right  of  suffrage;  the  Confederates  were  disfran- 


TOMMY  COOK  153 

chised  and  another  election  ordered;  and  the  test  oath 
like  love  in  the  fable  put  out  of  the  door  to  return  at 
the  window — literally  flew  to  Washington,  and  came 
back  with  all  the  power  of  the  Federal  government  be 
hind  it,  so  increased  in  venom  and  force,  that  in  good 
truth,  it  was  easier  for  a  camel  to  pass  through  the  eye 
of  a  needle  than  for  those  whom  it  was  intended  to 
keep  out  of  power  to  get  in.  Louisiana  had  no  longer 
the  dignity  of  even  a  white  penitent,  she  was  legislated 
out  of  her  complexion  and  became  a  black  State. 

The  wail  of  Jeremiah  was  heard  in  the  land :  "  Our 
inheritance  is  turned  to  strangers,  our  house  to  aliens. 
We  are  orphans  and  fatherless  .  .  .  our  necks  are  under 
persecution;  we  labor  and  have  no  rest;  servants  have 
rule  over  us.  ... " 

"  But  there  is  a  woe,"  responded  the  lawyers,  "  that 
Jeremiah  knew  not — the  woe  peculiarly  oppressive,  that 
comes  from  the  degradation  of  the  bar — the  prostitution 
of  our  courts  of  justice  to  political  greed.  Degrade  our 
profession,  and  Society  is  turned  adrift." 

Disqualified  from  Federal  offices,  disbarred  from  prac 
tice  in  the  Federal  courts,  their  own  State  offices  and 
courts  taken  possession  of  and  fixed  in  the  hands  of  the 
political  party  that  was  to  be  maintained  in  perpetuity 
by  the  votes  of  the  newly  enfranchised  negroes — the  old 
masters  of  the  State  were  reduced  to  political  slavery 
under  their  former  slaves,  and  they,  the  great  men  of  the 
bar  as  they  considered  themselves  to  be,  were  to  stand 
powerless  in  their  humiliation  and  impoverishment  and 
see  strangers,  aliens,  renegades,  any  tyro  of  the  law 
from  among  the  camp  followers  or  from  the  army  over 
them,  happy  in  their  iron-clad  qualification — draw  to 


154      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

land  the  great  lawsuits  and  glittering  fees,  rushing  by 
on  the  golden  tide.  Or  as  Tommy  Cook  saw  it,  as  if 
chained  to  the  masts,  the  captive  pirates  should  see 
Spanish  galleons,  laden  with  the  treasure  of  Mexico, 
swooped  down  upon  and  carried  off  by  their  captor; 
while  they,  who  could  have  done  it  so  well,  so  much 
better,  in  fact,  were  not  able  to  move  a  hand  in  the 
business. 

Pirates  themselves  could  not  have  expressed  their  re 
sentment  over  their  luckless  situation  in  language  more 
suitable  to  their  sentiments  than  did  the  lawyers  of  the 
State  whenever  or  wherever  they  met  with  one  another : 
on  the  street  corners,  in  the  barber  shops  or  in  their  own 
offices.  For  lawyers,  it  was  observed  at  the  time,  had 
learned  to  curse  as  well  as  to  fight  in  the  war.  "  If  ever 
they  get  possession  of  the  ship  again,"  said  Tommy  Cook 
in  his  thoughts,  "  they  will  know  hew  to  keep  it." 

Those  who  had  died  on  the  field  or  in  prison  could 
not  come  back  to  attend  these  meetings,  of  course — the 
war  had  accomplished  that  much,  at  least — but  "  only 
their  bodies  were  missing,"  as  Tommy  Cook  put  it  to 
himself,  "  their  voices  were  living  if  their  bodies  were 
not."  For  as  it  seemed  to  him,  no  counsel  they  could 
have  given,  no  curse  they  could  have  uttered,  not  a 
bitter  cry  they  could  have  made,  was  missing  from  the 
discussions  he  heard.  From  the  time  that  he,  a  little 
street  ragamuffin,  had  been  able  to  stand  on  the  outskirts 
of  the  crowd  at  a  political  meeting,  Tommy  Cook  had 
heard  much  about  the  "  voice  of  the  Country,"  and  had 
been  warned  over  and  over  again  that  what  he  heard  was 
"  the  voice  of  the  Country."  But  listen  as  he  might,  he 
had  heard  the  voice  of  only  this  or  that  politician.  The 


TOMMY  COOK  155 

dead  had  often  voted  on  political  questions,  as  no  one 
knew  better  than  he,  but  the  dead  had  never  spoken,  to 
his  knowledge,  for  or  against  Whig  or  Democrat,  State 
or  National  banks;  for  or  against  removing  the  capital 
from  the  city  to  the  country;  for  or  against  any  of  the 
great,  stirring  questions  of  that  day — as  they  were  speak 
ing  now  from  battlefields  and  prison  cemeteries  on  their 
constitutional  rights. 

"  Whatever  their  political  differences  in  the  past," 
mused  Tommy  Cook,  "  the  dead  are  all  one  side  now, 
and  they  will  all  vote,  and  there  will  be  no  trouble  about 
their  ballots,  there  will  be  found  no  one  bold  enough  to 
challenge  them  or  cry  fraud.  So  long  as  voting  is 
allowed  in  this  land,  these  dead  will  vote." 

"  I  have  but  one  lamp  by  which  my  feet  are  guided  and 
that  is  the  lamp  of  experience." 

"  No !  Not  that  way !  Loud  and  clear !  Pronounce 
your  words  distinctly !  " 

"  I  have  but  one  ..." 

"  Hold  your  head  up !  Throw  your  shoulders  back, 
plant  your  feet  firmly,  look  straight  ahead !  Yes,  that's 
the  way !  " 

"  I  have  but  one  lamp  by  which  my  feet  are  guided 
and  that  is  .  .  ." 

"  How  often  have  I  told  you  to  keep  your  fingers 
still!" 

..."  the  lamp  of  experience,  I  know  no  way  of 
judging  the  future  but  by  the  past.  ..." 

Such  was  the  way  the  afternoons  were  passed  in  St. 
Medard  after  the  stormy  forenoons  in  the  city;  the 
father  with  unwearied  persistence  showing  his  sons  how 
to  stand  and  speak  like  great  orators.  That  a  man  must 


156      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

be  a  good  speaker  was  his  educational  fiat  about  boys 
to  correspond  with  the  one  that  has  been  explained  about 
girls.  An  awkward,  embarrassed  man — one  who  mis 
pronounced  words,  who  did  not  stand  well  on  his  feet, 
throw  his  head  back  and  look  you  fearlessly  in  the  face 
as  if  he  were  not  afraid  of  anything  the  world  could 
produce  against  him,  who  sniffled  and  stammered — this 
in  the  boys*  mind  was  the  awful  counterpart  to  the  stupid 
ungraceful  lady  in  the  little  girls'  minds. 

The  little  girls  followed  the  speech-making  with  in 
tense  interest,  straightening  their  shoulders,  lifting  their 
heads,  and  forming  the  words  with  their  lips.  They  could 
have  done  trfe  "  lamp  of  experience  "  as  well  or  better 
than  the  boys;  or  any  of  the  great  speeches  they  had 
learned  by  heart,  as  they  sat  by  their  mother,  employed  in 
the  feminine  accomplishment  of  sewing. 

"  Let  us  not  deceive  ourselves." 

"  Say  that  over  again,"  came  the  quick,  stern  com 
mand.  "  Let  us  not  deceive  ourselves."  .  .  . 

"  They  tell  us,  Sir,  that  we  are  weak."  .  .  . 

"  Don't  drawl  it  out  in  that  sing-song  way ! "  The 
boys  and  the  little  girls  all  jumped  at  the  loud  sudden 
admonition. 

"  Besides,  Sir,  we  shall  not  fight  our  battles  alone. 
There  is  a  just  God  ..."  First  one  boy  and  then  the 
other  made  the  usual  failure  over  this  sentence.  .  .  . 

"  Gentlemen  may  cry  '  Peace !  Peace ! '  but  there  is  no 
peace."  .  .  . 

"  Say  it  again,  this  way."  .   .  . 

"  Forbid  it,  Almighty  God."  .  .  . 

"That's  it!    Now  you  have  the  idea!" 


THE  INSTITUT   MIMI 

COMPARED  with  the  Ursuline  convent,  that  is  if  earthly 
things  can  be  compared  to  heavenly  ones,  Mademoiselle 
Mimi's  school  might  have  been  called  a  small,  a  very 
small  one.  But  she  did  not  conduct  it  as  such:  she  con 
ducted  it  as  if  it  were  the  great  St.  Denis  of  New  Orleans, 
whose  pattern,  as  its  prospectus  explained,  was  the  great 
St.  Denis  of  Paris. 

Mademoiselle  Mimi  hardly  could  do  otherwise,  as 
she  herself  had  been  educated  at  the  St.  Denis  of  New 
Orleans  and  knew  no  other  school;  and  as  she  said,  she 
could  follow  only  those  examples  that  the  good  God 
had  given  her.  Therefore,  her  scholars — ten  or  twenty, 
four  or  six,  as  the  number  might  be — were  called  to 
order  by  the  ringing  of  a  bell  at  five  minutes  before  nine 
in  the  morning,  when  all  went  down  on  their  knees, 
crossed  themselves,  and  recited  the  Pater. 

The  Salle  delude,  as  it  was  called,  was  the  dining 
room ;  the  forms  were  its  chairs.  The  writing  was  done 
on  the  dining  table  in  the  center  of  which  all  the  copy 
books  were  arranged  in  neat  piles.  Mademoiselle  Mimi 
had  no  plantform  but  she  sat  as  though  she  were  on  one, 
behind  a  little  papier  mache  table  that  bore  a  papier 
mache  desk  inlaid  with  mother  of  pearl  (the  old  desk 
of  her  mother).  And  it  must  be  confessed  that  the  bell 
whose  ringing  ordered  the  hours  of  the  school  was 
nothing  better  than  a  tiny  porcelain  trifle,  shaped  like  a 


158      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

lily  with  a  gilt  pistil  for  clapper  and  a  gilt  stem  for 
handle — a  lamentable  falling  back  indeed  from  the  St. 
Denis  standard. 

The  desk  was  by  the  window,  and  the  classes  stood 
before  it  to  recite.  When  the  scholars  stood  properly, 
it  was  credited  to  their  account  of  good  marks,  as 
"  maintien " ;  when  improperly,  it  was  marked  against 
them.  In  the  St.  Denis  system,  there  was  no  doubt  as  to 
whether  one  knew  one's  lesson  or  not.  One  was  given 
so  many  lines  to  learn  by  heart.  If  one  could  repeat  the 
portion  without  a  mistake,  one  knew  it;  if  not,  not.  The 
system  was  as  clear  as  the  sun  to  the  children,  and  ex 
actly  as  one  repeated  the  lesson  one  was  marked  in 
Mademoiselle  Mimi's  account-book  which  was  kept  as 
if  it  were  to  be  produced  in  evidence  on  the  last  day.  A 
"  P,"  in  red  ink  meant  Perfect,  the  value  of  twelve  good 
marks ;  every  word  missed  took  one  mark  from  the  pos 
sible  twelve  and  when  the  whole  credit  was  exhausted, 
one  went  into  insolvency  with  a  naught,  or  even  a  cross ; 
a  bad  mark  against  one.  At  the  end  of  the  month, 
bankrupts  in  good  marks  were  put  at  the  foot  of  the 
class  capitalists  at  the  head ;  very  much,  so  Mademoiselle 
Mimi  might  say,  as  God  does  in  his  school  in  the  world. 
When  one  could  not  repeat  the  lesson,  one  was  held  not 
to  have  studied  it. 

"  But,  Mademoiselle  Mimi,  I  have  studied  it ;  I  assure 
you  I  have  studied  it !  "  one  would  cry. 

"  Ah !  my  child,  if  you  had  studied  it,  you  would  know 
it,"  was  the  just  answer. 

When  one  did  not  study  at  all,  was  in  fact  lazy  and 
stupid,  one  received  the  fool's  cap  and  was  stood  in  the 
corner;  and  when  one  pretended  not  to  mind  this  and 


THE  INSTITUT  MIMI  159 

played  the  impertinent  "  faisait  I 'impertinent "  in  school 
language,  by  making  grimaces  and  signs  to  the  other 
scholars,  then  old  Aglone  was  called  in  from  the  kitchen 
to  pin  a  dish-cloth  to  one's  tail-coat  or  frock.  Ah !  this 
hurt !  This  cut  the  pride  and  brought  tears  to  the  dryest- 
eyed  masculine  or  feminine !  The  punishment  did  not  be 
long  to  the  original  St.  Denis  system — it  was  an  addition, 
or  rather  an  innovation  of  Mademoiselle  Mimi's — but  it 
was  one  whose  efficacy  she  knew  by  experience,  for  it 
was,  from  time  immemorial,  the  punishment  of  cooks 
upon  children  who  came  into  their  kitchen  and  played 
the  impertinent  there. 

Heu!  what  child  would  enter,  even  under  compulsion, 
upon  an  education  if  the  true  size  of  the  undertaking 
was  revealed  to  it  from  the  first?  If  for  instance,  not 
merely  Pelion  was  piled  upon  Ossa,  but  all  the  moun 
tains  of  the  world  were  piled,  one  upon  the  other,  and 
the  small  toddler  was  conducted  to  the  base  and  was 
told :  "  Now  climb,  my  child,  climb !  It  is  true  you  will 
never  get  to  the  top,  but,  no  matter,  climb  away,  and 
keep  on  climbing."  Is  it  not  somewhat  as  if  the  mouse 
were  told  to  engender  the  mountain  ? 

But  fortunately,  the  approaches  to  education  are  so 
cunningly  concealed,  so  insidiously  presented,  that  to 
the  child,  it  seems  only  a  question  of  a  slate  or  a  primer, 
today;  the  multiplication  table,  tomorrow;  and  before 
one  knows  it,  the  years  gliding  by  like  a  snake  in  the 
grass,  one  is  at  the  terrible  junction,  the  Caudine  forks 
of  grammar.  It  was  at  this  point  of  the  height  above 
them  that  Cicely  and  Polly  were  graded  by  Mademoiselle 
Mimi,  and  their  first  steps  in  the  ascension  were  taken 
in  learning  to  prepare  their  copy  books — a  most  important 


160     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

step,  this,  to  Mademoiselle  Mimi,  and  one  that  meant 
influence  upon  the  rest  of  their  life.  They  were  to  take 
their  quire  of  fool's  cap — white  or  blue,  the  color  was 
not  important — to  fold  it  leaf  by  leaf,  press  it  down 
with  Mademoiselle  Mimi's  pearl  ruler  (that  went  with 
the  desk),  cut  it  with  her  mother  of  pearl  knife,  and 
arrange  the  tops  of  the  leaves  into  one  "  cahier,"  the 
bottoms  into  another.  Mademoiselle  Mimi,  herself, 
sewed  the  leaves  together,  providing  thread,  needle,  and 
thimble,  every  day  for  the  purpose ;  as  Aglone  provided 
dish-cloths  for  her  more  sinister  function.  Mademoiselle 
Mimi,  then,  with  a  tasteful  combination  of  fine  and 
coarse  pens  and  red  and  black  ink,  wrote  the  titles: 
"  Cahier  de  Verbes"  or  " D' Analyse"  or  " Synonymes" 
or  "  Composition"  or  " Regies"  with  date  and  name 
and  flourishes  between ;  for  she  had  as  pretty  a  talent  for 
ornamental  penmanship  as  any  daughter  of  the  Convent 
— the  fountain  source  in  the  community  of  this  accom 
plishment.  To  impress  her  scholars  with  the  importance 
of  the  cahier  in  education,  to  make  an  object  lesson  of  it, 
though  she  was  in  the  plains  of  ignorance  as  regards  any 
such  educational  term,  Mademoiselle  Mimi  would  take 
her  little  candidates  to  the  small  bookcase  secretaire  in 
her  bedroom,  and  opening  the  cabinet  underneath,  show 
them  the  cahier s  of  her  school  days.  Every  one  was 
there;  not  one  was  missing;  from  her  first  inchoate  pot 
hooks  and  hangers  to  the  dawn  of  the  ornamental  finish 
ing  aforementioned;  showing  the  entire  course  from 
the  first  verb  to  the  last  composition  on  "  Spring," 
"  Birds,"  "  Love  of  Parents,"  or  "  Duty  to  One's  Neigh 
bors,"  etc.,  etc.  And  there  too,  were  her  school  books — 
all  neatly  covered  with  calico,  as  she  exacted  that  those 


THE  INSTITUT  MIMI  161 

of  her  scholars  should  be, — class  after  class  of  books, 
for  she  had  climbed  to  the  topmost  pinnacle  of  the  St. 
Denis  mountain. 

It  was  as  if  a  bank  president  should  open  his  safe  and 
show  to  an  office  boy  his  stored  gold.  This  was  her 
capital,  her  stock  in  trade.  She  taught  her  first  books  to 
her  first  scholars  as  she  would  be  glad  to  teach  her  last 
ones  to  a  graduate,  should  she  ever  have  one. 

"  I  will  teach  all  that  I  have  learned  myself,"  she  would 
frankly  declare  to  her  patrons.  "  I  do  not  promise  more, 
for  I  cannot  do  more." 

Every  Friday  she  read  out  the  total  of  each  one's  good 
and  bad  marks  for  the  week.  On  the  last  Friday  of  the 
month,  she  collected  and  redistributed  her  medals,  hung 
on  fresh  ribbons ;  the  medals  too  being  left  from  her  own 
school  days.  And  the  same  rule  held  sway  in  her  institu 
tion  as  in  St.  Denis,  and  perhaps  in  the  parental  institution 
in  Paris:  the  same  scholar,  the  cleverest  one,  always 
obtained  the  medal,  month  after  month;  and  the  lazy, 
stupid  ones, — never,  no  matter  how  much  more  glorious 
the  achievement  would  have  been  for  them. 

Every  day,  a  verb,  a  sum  in  arithmetic,  a  French  and 
an  English  dictation,  a  paragraph  of  grammar,  French 
and  English;  so  climbed  they  at  the  Institut  Mimi. 
Histoire  Sainte,  Histoire  Generate,  every  other  day. 
Geography,  once  a  week.  Friday,  recitation  of  fables 
and  poetry,  writing  of  letters,  compositions  and  "  Com 
pliments,"  in  their  season. 

Complements.  That  was  the  keynote  of  the  school 
from  every  September  to  January:  greetings  to  the 
parents  on  New  Year's  day.  Those  who  could  not  write 
had  to  learn  theirs  by  heart:  " Mon  cher  Papa"  "Ma 


1 62      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

chere  Maman,  void  le  jour  de  Van"  .  .  .  with  the  proper 
bow  or  courtesy.  Those  who  could  write,  prepared  their 
surprises  on  notepaper,  scolloped  along  the  edge,  with  a 
little  pink  rose  stamped  at  the  top.  Instead  of  four,  six 
months  of  Fridays  would  not  have  been  too  much  prep 
aration,  so  difficult  are  the  bows  and  courtesies,  the 
capitals  and  spelling  of  these  compliments.  It  is  well  that 
the  parents  are  invariably  delighted  and  surprised  with 
such  greetings,  otherwise,  the  time  and  trouble  and  the 
tears  shed  over  them  would  not  have  been  worth  while. 

At  twelve  o'clock  came  recreation  and  lunch;  at  three, 
prayer  again,  and  the  last  farewell  tinkle  of  the  porce 
lain  bell. 

Monsieur  Pinseau,  or  "  Papa  Pinseau,"  as  the  children 
called  him,  sitting,  if  it  were  cold,  in  the  next  room — 
if  it  were  warm,  on  the  gallery — could  overhear  it  all. 
Sometimes,  he  had  the  French  paper  L'Abeille  to 
read,  sometimes  an  American  paper.  Mademoiselle 
Mimi  always  provided  him  with  the  one  or  the  other. 
She  cculd  see,  however,  that  they  interested  him  but 
little.  He  would  stop  any  time  on  a  European  despatch 
if  Belle  put  her  head  on  his  knee;  and  he  would  turn 
from  the  sheet  a  half  dozen  times  in  the  morning  at  the 
twitching  of  a  leaf  outside  the  window,  or  to  look  for 
the  two  dear  little  heads  of  his  friends,  the  pair  of  lizards 
that  dwelt  in  the  vines  there.  By  raising  his  eyes,  he 
could  see,  on  the  low  whitewashed  walls,  the  portraits 
of  his  mother  and  father ;  she,  serious  and  dignified  in  a 
turban  and  muslin  kerchief,  he,  sedate  and  shrewd,  in  a 
high  stock  and  black  toupet.  The  portraits  of  the 
parents  of  his  wife  hung  in  his  daughter's  room. 
Strange  to  say,  the  mother  of  that  rigid  saint  was  painted 


THE  INSTITUT  MIMI  163 

in  the  costume  of  the  frivolous  world,  not  decolletee 
merely,  but  decorsetee  also,  and  her  father  showed  in  his 
face  no  sentiment  for  the  ascetic  at  all. 

Sometimes,  while  the  old  gentleman  was  sunken  in 
reflection,  perhaps  on  this  very  theme,  past  distraction  by 
Belle  or  the  lizards  or  vague  thoughts  about  his  flowers, 
there  would  come  a  little  touch  upon  his  elbow  and  a 
timid  voice  to  his  ear :  "  Monsieur  Pinseau,  Mademoiselle 
Mimi  vous  fait  dire  comme  g a  .  .  .  "  and  he,  too,  would 
have  to  put  his  hand  to  the  climbing.  Because,  if  the  day 
was  ugly  (for  every  now  and  then  there  does  come  an 
ugly  day  in  New  Orleans  when  the  sky  is  as  dark  and 
the  rain  as  pitilessly  monotonous  as  anywhere  else) 
Mademoiselle  Mimi  would  say  to  herself :  "  Poor  Papa, 
on  such  a  day  as  this,  what  sad  thoughts  he  must  have !  " 
and  she  would  call  up  a  little  scholar  and  send  her  to 
Papa  Pinseau  to  ask  him  to  hear  her  fable.  And  if  the 
day  were  fine,  the  sky  blue,  the  sun  radiant,  the  earth 
gay,  Mademoiselle  Mimi  would  think :  "  Poor  Papa,  how 
sad  he  must  be  on  such  a  beautiful  day  as  this."  And 
she  would  send  some  little  scholar  with  her  reading  lesson 
from  Telemaque.  The  reading  lesson  was  always  from 
Telemaque  and  the  poetry  from  La  Fontaine's  fables; 
for  one  could  not  ascend  any  educational  height 
whatever  without  them  in  Mademoiselle  Mimi's 
opinion. 

"  Holy,  blessed  Virgin !  "  old  Aglone  would  mutter  to 
herself  in  the  kitchen,  "  look  at  that;  and  you  know  how 
he  used  to  hate  children !  " 

The  little  girls  (little  girls  have  a  keener  sense  of 
humor  than  little  boys),  when  they  would  come  in  "La 
Cigale  et  la  Fourmi"  to  the  conversation: 


164     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

"  Que  f  aisles  vous  au  temps  chaudf 
"  Nuit  et  jour  a  tout  venant, 
"lie  chantais,  ne  vous  deplaise 
"  Vous  chanties?    J'en  suis  fort  aise, 
"  Eh  bien,  dansez  maintenant! " 

When  they  came  to  that  they  would  throw  back  their 
heads  and  laugh,  showing  all  their  little  white  teeth;  it 
was  always  so  new  and  funny  to  them.  But  poor  Papa 
Pinseau,  he  did  not  laugh.  That  fable  was  no  longer 
funny  to  him. 

The  children  who  had  no  piano,  who,  plainly  speaking, 
were  too  poor  to  have  one,  practised  on  Mademoiselle 
Mimi's  instrument  after  school  hours;  and  those  who 
lived  near  enough  went  in  addition  on  Saturdays,  when 
Mademoiselle  Mimi  was  herself,  practising  at  the  church 
or  giving  lessons  to  the  Demoiselles  San  Antonio. 

To  go  on  Saturday,  was  equivalent  to  having  a  lesson 
from  Papa  Pinseau  who,  of  course,  was  always  at  home, 
and  could  no  more  refrain  from  meddling  with  the  music 
than  with  the  cooking  in  his  daughter's  absence.  And 
when  Mademoiselle  Mimi  would  come  through  the  gate 
after  her  morning  tasks  and  would  pause  a  minute  to 
listen  to  the  practising,  as  music  teachers  do  mechanically 
even  when  walking  in  the  street  by  strange  houses,  she 
would  hear  the  scales  and  five  finger  exercises  being 
played  with  as  much  sentiment  of  touch,  as  if  they  were 
a  "  divertissement!' 

And  although  he  knew,  naturally,  no  more  about  the 
technique  of  fingering  than  of  pots  and  pans,  if  she 
glanced  through  the  shutters  of  the  window  as  likely  as 
not,  she  saw  the  picture  of  an  old  gentleman  bending  over 


THE  INSTITUT  MIMI  165 

the  pianist,  showing  her  exactly  how  the  wrist  should 
be  raised  and  the  little  pink  palm  turned  to  the  best  ad 
vantage  of  the  musician — if  not  of  the  music — and  how 
the  fingers  may  be  used  to  the  least  detriment  of  the 
finger-nails  which,  on  ladies,  he  would  say,  should  be 
long,  oval,  and  perfectly  transparent;  as  if  he  were  say 
ing  her  soul  should  be  perfectly  pure. 

"  What  is  not  done  gracefully,  Mademoiselle,  it  is  not 
worth  while  for  ladies  to  do  at  all." 

Mademoiselle  Mimi  did  not  need  to  listen  to  hear  these 
words  any  more  than  she  needed  to  listen  to  hear  the 
church  bell. 

"  Eh,  Papa ! '  she  would  say  to  him  sometimes  in  her 
dismay.  "  The  scales  and  the  five-finger  exercises ;  they 
are  not  given  to  us  to  make  us  more  attractive,  any  more 
than  the  Ten  Commandments  are."  Sometimes  when  the 
New  Year's  compliments  were  being  prepared,  she  would 
be  forced  by  other  occupations  to  confide  the  rehearsal 
of  them  to  him,  for  when  the  compliments  are  once 
started  in  motion  they  must  be  recited  or  copied  every 
day  with  the  regularity  of  one's  prayer.  It  is  really  only 
their  importance  that  constituted  their  difficulty;  but  it 
is  strange,  how  in  copying  or  reciting  them  the  embar- 
rassment  becomes  more  and  more  extreme  with  the  ap 
proach  of  the  great  day  they  are  to  honor ;  how  one  trips 
over  the  most  familiar  words,  and  stumbles  over  the 
shortest  sentences;  and  how  on  the  very  last  day  one  is 
just  as  apt  to  make  the  same  fault  that  one  started  with 
on  the  first.  And  over  these  failures,  what  bitter  tears 
can  be  shed!  What  depths  of  anguish  sounded  by  boys 
and  girls  alike,  neither  sex  having  any  advantage  over 
the  other  in  the  endurance  of  shame! 


166      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

Fortunate  it  was  for  the  little  girls  at  least,  that  there 
was  a  Papa  Pinseau  to  replace  Mademoiselle  Mimi,  on 
her  Saturday  morning  absences  which  may  have  been 
prolonged  not  involuntarily;  for  if  she  prided  herself  on 
teaching  only  what  she  had  learned,  how  could  she  teach 
the  little  girls  to  step  forward  and  courtesy  and  smile  and 
look  the  proper  way — not  to  speak  of  the  little  boys — 
she  who  had  been  taught  dancing  by  a  pietist,  recom 
mended  by  her  mother's  confessor,  a  lady  whose  only 
grace  was  her  piety. 

With  Papa  Pinseau  it  was  different !  He  knew  exactly 
how  the  little  ones  should  walk  up  to  the  expectant,  sur 
prised  parent, — the  chief  attraction  of  the  compliment  to 
the  little  ones  was  the  perfect  surprise  they  caused  year 
after  year, — how  they  should  courtesy,  how  lift  the  hand 
— palm  outward,  and  then  as  a  climax,  the  eyes.  When 
he  had  a  good  subject,  he  produced  charming  results, 
results  entirely  beyond  the  power,  because  entirely  be 
yond  the  character,  of  his  daughter. 

The  little  boys  ran  off  from  their  rehearsals  as  soon 
as  possible;  but  the  little  girls — Ah!  how  wise  was  Mr. 
Talbot  in  his  judgment — would  hang  around  him  as  if 
fascinated;  seeing  which,  he  would  fascinate  them  yet 
more,  just  as  he  used  to  do  with  those  other  little  girls, 
the  young  ladies  of  his  day.  Everything  he  did  pleased 
them,  anything  he  said  amused  them.  When  Made 
moiselle,  as  a  reward  for  good  behavior,  would  offer 
to  tell  a  story  of  her  scholars'  own  choosing,  the  little 
girls  would  cry  out  unanimously :  "  Ask  Papa  Pinseau 
to  tell  us  about  when  he  was  little,  and  how  he  went  to 
dancing-school ! " 

His  dancing  school  was  a  kind  of  fairyland  to  them, 


THE  INSTITUT  MIMI  167 

for  as  they  understood  it,  the  pretty  manners  of  the 
ladies  and  gentlemen  of  his  day  came  from  the  pretty 
manners  taught  in  the  dancing-school  by  an  old  gentle 
man  who  was  a  French  nobleman,  an  emigre,  who  had 
been  noted  for  his  dancing  at  the  court  of  Marie  Antoi 
nette.  (The  little  girls  would  shake  their  heads  in  solemn 
awe  at  this  and  repeat  "  the  court  of  Marie  Antoinette.") 
He  gave  his  lessons  in  an  old  court  dress  with  silk  stock 
ings  and  morocco  pumps.  Another  old  nobleman  played 
the  violin  for  him.  They  lived  together  in  a  little  room 
on  Toulouse  Street,  and  their  Salle  de  danse  was  in  Royal 
Street,  over  a  confectionery.  All  the  little  boys  and 
girls  of  good  family  went  to  him.  The  old  dancing- 
master  was  very  particular  about  the  parentage  and  the 
feet  of  his  scholars.  The  little  girls  must  have  their 
slippers  made  by  an  old  woman  on  Chartres  Street,  the 
boys,  by  the  famous  Larose,  himself.  .  .  . 

When  he  was  a  young  man,  Monsieur  Pinseau  was 
noted  for  his  witty  talent  of  mimicry,  and  there  was 
nothing  he  did  better  or  more  delightfully  than  the  old 
dancing-master  and  the  violinist,  the  little  boys  in  their 
pumps  and  wide  trousers,  and  the  little  girls,  long  pan 
talettes  and  all.  Poor  Papa  Pinseau!  his  feet  were 
gouty  and  heavy  enough  now  and  he  wore  carpet  slippers, 
bought  at  the  cheapest  shop  at  the  Louisa  Street  market. 

.  .  .  When  the  old  dancing-master  died  (now  the 
story  became  thrilling  to  the  little  girls)  and  his  obituary 
notices  were  posted  on  the  corners  of  the  streets,  so  many 
high-sounding  names  appeared  in  it  (the  confectioner 
did  this)  that  the  whole  city  became  confused  and  em 
barrassed  over  it,  and  everybody  insisted  upon  going 
to  the  funeral  at  the  Cathedral.  The  little  Pinseau  was 


168      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

taken  by  his  nurse  and  made  to  look  upon  the  old 
dancing-master  in  his  coffin  (there  is  nothing  a  nurse 
likes  better  than  such  surreptitious  enjoyment  of  for 
bidden  fruit),  and  he  was  all  surprised  to  find  him,  in 
spite  of  his  great  names,  still  the  same  little,  yellow- 
wrinkled  tyrant  of  a  dancing-master,  dressed  in  the  same 
old  knee  breeches  and  darned  stockings  and  pumps  with 
silver  buckles.  The  little  boys  of  the  dancing-school 
followed  the  hearse  dressed  as  if  for  their  dancing 
lesson,  each  one  carrying  a  bouquet  (always  a  sigh  of 
regret  followed  this  termination  of  the  tale). 

It  was  the  old  Marquis  who  taught  the  ladies  of  New 
Orleans  how  much  prettier  it  was  to  dance  with  their 
eyes  cast  down.  The  ex-ballet-dancer  who  succeeded 
him  could  teach  only  like  a  ballet-dancer,  and  the  ladies 
of  New  Orleans  only  then  began  to  throw  their  heads 
back  in  dancing  and  show  their  eyes  as  they  did  their 
feet;  (so  ran  the  warning  moral  of  the  tale — at  which 
the  little  girls  would  cast  down  their  heads  and  eyes  at 
once). 

Mr.  Talbot  knew  nothing,  and  even  less  than  nothing, 
of  all  this.  A  point  of  variance  had  developed  between 
him  and  Mademoiselle  Mimi.  After  careful  examina 
tion,  he  had  rejected  the  histories  she  taught,  although 
they  were  written  by  learned  priests,  were  recommended 
by  Monseigneur  the  Archbishop,  and  were,  therefore, 
taught  in  all  schools  of  the  State  where  religion  had 
any  authority.  This  time  he  did  not  intrust  any  mes 
sages  to  his  wife,  but  told  Mademoiselle  Mimi,  himself, 
what  he  had  to  say  about  her  histories;  and  she, — 
it  was  all  she  could  do, — promised  to  teach  Protestant 
histories  if  he  desired. 


THE  INSTITUT  MIMI  169 

"  Protestant  histories,  Madam !  History  is  history. 
There  is  no  such  thing  as  Roman  Catholic  history  or 
Protestant  history!  Any  more  than  there  is  Roman 
Catholic  arithmetic  or  Protestant  arithmetic,  et  tutti 
quanta  .  .  /' 

She  listened  to  him  attentively  and  seemed  to  be  con 
vinced,  but  the  truth  was,  being  a  woman,  she  disliked 
lectures  and  followed  his  words  only  sufficiently  to  know 
when  to  place  what  she  had  made  up  her  mind,  at  once, 
to  say  to  him :  "  Far  from  not  wanting  to  act  according 
to  your  desires,  I,  on  the  contrary,  shall  be  only  too 
happy  to  follow  your  views  on  the  subject.  I  beg  you 
to  select  the  histories  yourself,  that  you  should  like  your 
daughters  taught,  and  I  shall  teach  them.  Indeed  I  con 
sider  it  a  great  privilege  to  have  a  gentleman  of  your 
education  to  direct  me,"  etc.,  etc. 

When  she  returned  home,  however,  manifold  diffi 
culties  presented  themselves  in  the  way  of  her  fulfil 
ling  her  promise.  She  had  scruples  of  conscience  on  the 
subject,  for  to  be  on  the  good  side  of  the  priests  and  the 
sisters  at  the  convent,  omnipotent  secular  as  well  as 
clerical  authorities  in  the  parish,  she  had  asked  and 
followed  their  advice  about  text-books  and  they,  some 
what  like  the  American  gentleman,  were  most  firm  in 
their  ideas  about  history. 

"  In  truth,"  she  confided  to  her  father,  "  I  must,  it 
seems,  teach  two  histories  on  the  same  subject.  But  the 
very  beginning  of  all  histories  for  small  children  im 
presses  the  belief  that  there  is  but  one  history,  and  that 
the  one  taught  is  the  right  one!  And  we  are  especially 
urged  to  warn  them  against  the  other  kind, — the  false 
histories  which  poison  the  mind  and  corrupt  the  truth- 


THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

How  can  I  in  one  class  teach  that  Luther  was  a  monster, 
sent  by  the  devil,  a  false  priest;  and  in  another  that  he 
was  .  .  .  what  I  will  not  repeat — all  that  Mr.  Talbot 
believes  about  him;  to  one  child,  that  it  was  God  who 
gained  the  battle  of  Tolbiac,  and  to  another  that  it 
wasn't?  He  objects  to  that  particularly;  he  cited  the 
battle  of  Tolbiac  himself.  Oh,  about  miracles  he  was 
most  eloquent.  He  says  that  he  does  not  want  his 
children  taught  that  there  are  such  things  as  miracles  in 
history.  But  if  miracles  have  happened,  what  are  we 
going  to  do  about  them?  Deny  them?  Ah!  It  was 
to  the  very  people  that  denied  them  that  the  miracles 
came ;  the  pagans,  the  blasphemers.  How  could  they  ever 
have  been  converted  without  miracles?  It  may  be  a 
difficulty  for  a  man  to  believe  them,  but/'  with  a  covert 
reference  to  her  father's  indifference  to  religion,  "  for 
a  woman,  I  assure  you  nothing  seems  so  natural  as  a 
miracle." 

Fortunately,  Papa  Pinseau  had  no  such  scruples,  hav 
ing  very  little  religion.  Instead  of  seeing  one  right  side 
in  every  historical  question  in  which  he  had  figured — that 
is  in  every  political  question — he  had  seen  as  many  right 
sides  as  it  was  as  profitable  to  as  many  men  to  adopt. 
The  right  side  was  the  side  that  got  most  votes  in  the 
ballot-box,  that  was  all — and  the  men  in  one  campaign 
would  vote  for  one  right  side,  and  in  the  next  for  another. 
Constancy  and  consistency  he  had  found  to  be  as  rare 
in  history  as  in  love.  So  he  was  well  qualified  to  be 
come  Professor  of  American  History,  as  the  children 
called  history  written  in  English,  in  the  Institut  Mimi. 
He  conducted  his  class  of  two  with,  at  least,  irreproach 
able  tact  and  grace ;  and  as  difficult  situations  had  always 


THE  INSTITUT  MIMI  171 

been  infinitely  attractive  to  him,  he  did  not  shun,  as 
Mademoiselle  would  have  done,  naive  questions  when 
the  lesson  was  over. 

"  In  history,  the  great  men  are  the  good  men,  eh, 
Monsieur  Pinseau  ?  " 

"  And  the  beautiful  women  are  the  good  women,  eh, 
Monsieur  Pinseau?" 

"  And  when  a  man  is  good,  he  is  always  great,  eh, 
Monsieur  Pinseau  ?  " 

"  Unless  he  is  a  great  fool,"  would  answer  Monsieur 
Pinseau. 

"  And  if  a  man  is  good,  his  enemies  have  to  be  bad,  eh, 
Monsieur  Pinseau  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  the  enemies  of  good  people  are  always  the 
bad  people,"  he  would  answer  placidly. 


CRIBICHE 

CRIBICHE,  it  must  be  explained,  was  a  gift  of  God  to  the 
neighborhood,  as  his  baptismal  name  Theodore  implied. 
Both  metaphorically  and  in  sober  fact,  his  forlorn  ex 
istence  had  been  laid  at  the  door  of  every  possible  parent 
in  the  parish,  but  the  metaphorical  meaning  had  pre 
vented  his  being  accepted  anywhere  out  of  charity.  Truly 
when  a  parent  abandons  a  child,  it  is  abandoned  indeed ! 
After  urging  its  adoption  into  every  Gascon  cabin  there 
abouts — for  the  child  was  like  a  drop  of  the  very  essence 
of  Gascony — the  priest  thought  of  taking  it  to  an  orphan 
asylum.  But  he  was  sensitive  to  the  fine  application  of 
God's  law,  in  the  parish  of  St.  Medard  if  not  in  the 
world.  The  child  had  been  left  not  on  the  steps  of  the 
church,  it  is  true,  but  in  the  great  ditch  in  front  that 
drained  it,  Fortunately,  the  ditch  was  dry  and  there  was 
no  rain  that  night  or  it  might  have  been  drained  away 
with  other  seepage  of  the  soil.  When  the  priest  saw  this 
degrading  contempt  of  the  babe — for  it  could  have  been 
left  on  the  steps  of  the  church — and  saw  that  no  one 
would  take  it  in,  but,  on  the  contrary,  spurned  it  as  an 
aspersion  of  dishonor,  he  reflected  upon  the  occurrence 
and  upon  the  world  into  which,  without  volition  of  its 
own,  the  baby  had  been  brought.  Whenever  Pere 
Phileas  reflected  upon  any  of  the  passing  events,  even  of 
the  insignificant  life  about  him,  he  always  ended  by  a 
chronic  malady  of  his,  namely:  a  distortion  of  vision — 

172 


CRIBICHE  173 

his  eyes  seeing,  not  what  actually  lay  before  them,  but 
something  else  that  existed  only  in  his  own  mind;  as 
we  have  seen  him  turn  from  the  simple,  ordinary  event 
of  strangers  moving  into  the  neighborhood  to  fine-spun 
theories  about  God's  intentions.  Now  seeing,  as  he 
thought,  that  God  meant  something  by  sending  the  baby 
to  St.  Medard,  he  gave  it  the  name  of  Theodore,  and 
although  the  next  inference  might  have  been  the  nearest 
orphan  asylum,  he  took  charge  of  it  himself.  That  is, 
he  gave  it  in  charge  to  the  old  negress  Zizi,  who,  for  a 
trifle  of  money  and  the  salvation  of  her  soul,  attended  to 
his  daily  domestic  wants.  She  lived,  conveniently,  in 
a  far  corner  of  his  garden.  The  charge  of  a  baby  is 
nothing  to  an  old  negress.  A  fine  lady  would  be  put  to 
more  trouble  in  selecting  lace  for  a  handkerchief  than 
she  in  assuming  the  responsibility  of  a  day-old  baby. 
But  babies  thrive  with  old  negresses,  and  give  them  less 
trouble  than  they  do  to  fine  ladies.  Babies,  mules,  and 
negroes  seem  made  for  one  another.  Though  why  this 
should  be  so,  only  the  Creator  who  made  them  and  who 
knows  all  things,  knows.  It  may  be  because,  in  some 
things,  perhaps  in  most,  babies  and  mules  are  alike. 

A  healthy  baby  asks  only  time  and  opportunity.  This 
Cribiche  received  amply.  Unfortunately,  his  having 
been  found  in  the  gutter,  though  it  procured  him  the 
name  of  Theodore  from  the  priest,  affixed  to  him  also 
that  of  Cribiche,  the  Creole  for  ecrevisse,  crayfish. 
Only  God  and  the  priest  knew  him  by  any  other  appella 
tion.  He  grew  with  time  and  profited  by  his  opportuni 
ties.  But  if  ever  the  proverb  "  the  nearer  the  church 
the  farther  from  God "  was  verified  in  this  world,  it 
was  in  this  case.  Cribiche  was  as  precocious  in  naughti- 


174      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

ness  as  any  little  negro  of  the  same  age.  And  that  is 
saying  a  great  deal.  How  quickly  time  flies!  The  gift 
to  the  parish  became  ten  years  old  before  Pere  Phileas 
had  recovered  from  his  surprise  at  his  walking  and  talk 
ing;  and  even  then  he  was  stretching  his  tethers,  alas! 
not  toward  goodness. 

Pere  Phileas's  "  Imitation "  had  warned  him,  how 
many  times  the  well-thumbed  page  alone  could  tell, 
"  Withstand  the  beginnings,  the  remedy  is  applied  too 
late  when  the  evil  has  grown  strong  through  delay."  But 
when  are  the  beginnings  of  evil  in  an  infant?  That  the 
"  Imitation  "  did  not  indicate.  When  the  priest  was  ready 
to  apply  the  remedy,  it  was  already  too  late!  Indeed, 
to  the  simple  soul  it  seemed  that  even  the  baptism  had 
been  too  late ;  that  evil  had  entered  the  child  in  the  very 
ditch  of  his  nativity. 

Laziness  and  lying  were  the  temptations  to  be  resisted. 
Cribiche,  however,  resisted  not  them  but  their  opposites. 
So  Joachim  was  forced  to  flay  his  body  for  him  while 
the  priest  wrought  to  cure  his  soul.  But  to  cure  a  soul 
one  must  catch  it;  and  as  well  try  to  catch  a  bird  in  a 
tree  when  it  has  gotten  away  from  you.  And  Cribiche' s 
lessons,  and  his  catechism  were,  respectfully  be  it  spoken, 
salt  on  the  tail.  As  for  communion  and  confirmation  he 
remained  in  such  a  state  of  nature  that  one  could  only 
pray  for  a  miracle  to  accomplish  his  salvation. 

Thus  while  other  children  climbed  and  learned  at  the 
Institut  Mimi,  Cribiche  roamed  at  his  own  free  will  in  the 
pleasant  valley  of  ignorance.  When  Pere  Phileas  would 
send  him  to  school,  that  is,  take  him  by  the  arm  and  push 
him  inside  Mademoiselle  Mimi's  gate,  he  had  better  have 
said :  "  Cribiche,  my  son,  my  good  little  son,  go  not  to 


CRIBICHE  175 

school  to  Mademoiselle  Mimi,  go,  on  the  contrary,  and 
spend  the  day  fishing  for  perch  in  the  old  Mexican  Gulf 
canal.  Or  go  to  that  little  Bayou  back  of  the  battle 
ground,  that  thou  knowest  of,  and  fish  there  in  the  shade 
of  the  oak  trees.  Or  if  thou  canst  beg,  borrow,  or  steal 
a  gun  along  that  same  Bayou,  thou  wilt  find  ducks,  or 
in  any  magnolia  tree,  "  Grassees"  eating  the  magnolia 
berry  to  flavor  their  delicate  flesh  expressly  for  the  epi 
cure.  Or  maybe,  you  feel  like  gathering  oranges  for 
the  traders  who  are  now  buying  them  and  you  can  work 
for  them  all  day  long  contentedly,  and  come  home  with 
a  dozen  for  pay.  Or  go  if  you  will  and  pick  up  pecans 
for  the  Sisters  at  the  convent ;  they  are  rich  and  therefore 
must  make  more  money  still  by  selling  their  pecans  and 
they  will  willingly  give  you  your  pockets  and  hands  full, 
for  your  day's  work,  and  perhaps  hang  a  scapulary  on 
your  dirty  neck,  instead  of  having  you  flogged  by  their 
gate-keeper  and  sent  to  school.  Or  the  Roulaison  (sugar 
grinding)  has  begun  on  the  coast,  and  any  planter  down 
there  will  welcome  you  to  put  cane  on  the  carrier  all  day, 
for  the  slight  payment  of  letting  you  eat  as  much 
*  caramel '  and  '  Cuite '  (candied  sugar  of  the  cane 
juice)  as  you  want.  ..." 

Pere  Phileas  had  better  have  told  Cribiche  to  do  all 
this  and  saved  him  from  the  sin  of  disobedience.  For  it 
was  what  Cribiche  would  do  without  fail,  slipping  out  of 
the  school-gate,  just  as  soon  as  the  priest's  back  was 
turned ;  unless  the  fancy  took  him  to  lie  on  a  grassy  spot 
on  the  Levee  and  watch  the  ships  go  by;  or  hide  in  the 
corner  of  some  Gascon  cafe,  the  best  resort  of  all  on 
a  rainy  day,  and  listen  to  the  talk  going  on  there. 
Desire  of  learning  was  not  in  him — as  the  priest  said 


176      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

sadly,  nor  shame  of  ignorance.  When  Cribiche  sought 
Papa  Pinseau's  society,  it  was  not  alas!  to  improve  his 
accent  or  diction  in  French,  nor  for  La  Fontaine  nor  the 
adventures  of  Telemaque;  but  to  recount  his  own  ad 
ventures  in  hunting  and  fishing.  And  if  Belle,  who  lay 
sleepy  and  bored  through  all  the  wit  and  wisdom  of 
classic  French  morality,  if  she  lifted  her  head  at  these 
recitals  and  listened,  and  to  Cribiche's  "  pam,  pam,"  as 
he  aimed  and  shot  off  his  imaginary  gun,  barked  eager 
exclamations  and  ran  excitedly  around  the  room  nosing 
under  chairs  and  sofas — to  lie  at  her  master's  feet  after 
wards,  whining  from  sheer  longing — what  must  the  other 
old  hunter  have  felt?  He,  indeed,  would  be  the  last 
authority  on  earth  to  urge  book  learning  upon  Cribiche. 
The  question  is,  would  Cribiche  have  studied  ever  had 
not  the  misfortunes  of  war  been  inflicted  upon  Mr. 
Talbot? 

As  the  sage  La  Fontaine  says : 

'  .  .  .   on  rencontre  sa  destinee, 
Souvent  par  les  chemins  qu'on  prend  pour  I'eviter" 

There  is  an  island  on  the  coast  below  St.  Medard 
called  St.  Malo.  It  is  peopled  by  Malays,  who  do  naught 
else  under  God's  heaven,  as  the  saying  of  the  parish  goes, 
but  fish;  and,  the  evil-minded  say,  play  the  pirate  when 
chance  offers  that  luck  to  them.  Free  as  the  winds  and 
waves  about  them ;  children  of  the  elements  and  untamed 
as  they.  And  there  is  another  place,  not  far  from  St. 
Medard,  the  Terre  aux  Boeufs,  the  home  of  the  Islefios, 
or  "  Islingues,"  as  they  call  themselves ;  a  narrow  strip 
of  land  encircled  by  a  Bayou,  which  itself  is  surrounded 


CRIBICHE  177 

by  trembling  prairies  that  separate  it  from  the  Gulf  of 
Mexico.  These  people  are  also  Spanish,  brought  here 
by  their  government  a  century  before  as  colonists  from 
the  Canary  Islands,  as  the  Malays  were  from  the  Philip 
pines.  But  only  the  historians  know  this.  The  people 
themselves  know  only  that  they  are  Islenos  and  can  live 
to  themselves  without  hindrance  on  their  Island  in 
Louisiana;  the  men  hunting  and  fishing  all  the  week 
and  the  women  sitting  in  front  of  their  palmetto  thatched 
huts,  on  the  bank  of  the  Bayou,  waiting  for  their  men 
to  come  back  at  night.  No  schools,  no  churches  there — 
only  game  and  fish ;  and  nothing1  to  do  but  get  these  and 
put  them  on  little  ox  carts  and  drive  to  the  nearest  shop 
to  buy — when  they  needed  them — powder,  shot,  coffee, 
flour,  or  clothing. 

Either  of  these  was  the  road  that  Cribiche's  thoughts 
usually  took  to  avoid  his  destiny.  They  would  set  out 
at  sight  of  his  primer  towards  the  Malays  or  Islingues, 
and  instead  of  seeing  his  page  or  slate,  he  saw — with  the 
faculty  of  children  to  see  not  what  is,  but  what  they  wish 
— he  saw  the  low-lying  sky  of  the  Gulf,  the  foaming 
waves  leaping  over  the  snapper  banks,  or  farther  out 
beyond  the  sight  of  land,  the  blue  depths  where  the 
silvery  pampano  is  found;  or,  if  the  season  were  Autumn 
and  the  hour  twilight,  he  saw  the  reeds  of  a  Bayou 
in  the  trembling  prairie,  and  the  flocks  of  homing  ducks, 
flying  within  range  of  an  ambush.  And  bang !  bang !  he 
would  grow  as  wild  under  the  imagination  as  under  the 
reality  of  it. 

"  But,  my  son,  why  do  you  jump  and  start  that  way?  " 
the  good  priest  would  ask.  "  To  learn  a  lesson,  one 
must  be  calm  and  patient."  When  Pere  Phileas  could 


178      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

get  hold  of  his  charge  at  night,  he  would  bring  him  into 
his  room  and  seat  him  at  his  table  with  books  and  slate. 
But  always,  there  came  an  interruption;  no  one  in  St. 
Medard  appeared  to  have  time  to  consult  a  priest  except 
at  night,  and  the  sick  always  put  off  sending  for  him  for 
the  consolations  of  the  church  until  the  night  too;  during 
the  day  they  seemed  to  have  more  confidence  in  them 
selves.  When  thus  summoned,  the  good  man  could  not 
forbear  sighing  as  he  arose. 

"  My  son,"  he  would  say  to  Cribiche,  laying  his  great 
hand  kindly  on  the  boy's  shoulder,  "  you  see  how  it  is 
...  I  cannot  do  my  duty  to  you,  on  account  of  my 
duty  to  some  one  else.  .  .  .  You,  therefore,  must  do  my 
duty  to  yourself,  for  me.  Make  yourself  study  as  I 
would  make  you  study,  repeat  your  lessons  to  yourself 
as  you  would  repeat  them  to  me.  Be  a  good  boy;  when 
you  hear  the  trumpet  go  to  bed  and  be  sure  to  say  your 
prayers.  As  for  me,  I  am  going  back  into  the  swamp 
and  I  may  not  return  before  day,  the  way  is  dark  and 
difficult.  Be  careful  to  put  out  the  light." 

When  the  trumpet  sounded,  where  was  Cribiche?  He 
was,  briefly,  everywhere  that  he  should  not  have  been, 
he  was  nowhere  that  he  should  have  been. 

As  some  good  folk  enjoy  their  wealth  more  when  con 
templating  the  poverty  of  others  and  sleep  better  of  a  cold 
rainy  night,  by  contrasting  their  good,  warm  bed  with 
the  wretched  lot  of  the  homeless  and  shelterless,  so 
Cribiche  also  whetted  his  enjoyment  of  freedom. 

But  the  good,  after  all,  suffer  needlessly  from  their 
imagination  of  the  badness  of  the  bad.  Many  a  night, 
when  the  poor  priest  in  a  panic  at  the  wickedness  of  the 
devil  was  worrying  his  soul  over  the  whereabouts  of  the 


CRIBICHE  179 

boy,  going  even  to  the  length  of  throwing  himself  on 
his  knees  before  the  Holy  Virgin  and  praying  that  she, 
seeing  the  helplessness  of  the  boy's  only  earthly  guardian, 
would  cast  a  look  after  him  herself,  as  after  one  who 
had  no  earthly  father  or  mother  to  do  so,  or  only  such  as 
suspicion  gave — at  that  very  moment  Cribiche  would  be 
probably  no  farther  away  than  Joachim's  window,  nor 
more  evilly  employed  than  peeping  at  him  and  his  fat 
wife,  sitting  together,  gossiping,  while  the  grim  cat-o'- 
nine  tails,  that  Joachim  as  a  retired  sailor  preferred  to 
other  instruments  of  punishment,  was  hanging  innocently 
on  the  wall.  Or  he  would  be  standing  and  feasting  his 
eyes  on  the  sentry  at  the  barracks  who  was  ever  pacing 
to  and  fro,  to  and  fro,  not  daring  to  stop  or  laugh  and 
talk  or  run  away  for  fear  of  the  guardhouse.  But  best 
of  all,  he  enjoyed  slipping  upon  the  gallery  of  the 
Americans  and  all  unsuspected,  looking  down — even  as 
Lazarus  may  have  looked  down  upon  hell — upon  the 
torments  he,  himself,  was  so  well  out  of ;  at  boys  of  his 
own  age  and  spirit  undergoing  their  purgatory,  night 
after  night.  There  they  sat  around  the  dining-room 
table  with  their  books,  illuminated  by  an  oil  lamp,  study 
ing  under  no  Pere  Phileas,  always  hoping  for  the  best; 
but  under  the  real  eye  of  a  real  father,  always  prepared 
for  the  worst;  who  ran  up  his  black  flag  every  night, 
so  to  speak,  and  gave  no  quarter  to  sleepiness,  laziness, 
or  shirking.  There  were  no  messages  there  calling  him 
away.  Hour  after  hour  the  pale,  serious,  scholarly  man 
sat  unmoved,  book  in  hand,  waiting  for  the  balky  lessons 
to  be  learned  and  recited  to  his  satisfaction.  Light  after 
light  in  the  house  would  go  out,  but  that  lamp  burned 
on  even  if  necessary  until  midnight;  until,  if  the  fancy 


i8o      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

be  permitted,  the  slow  intelligence  of  the  boys  caught 
light  from  it. 

Never  did  the  salt  waves  and  winds  of  the  Gulf  seem 
so  near  to  Cribiche;  never  did  fish  bite  better  in  the 
Bayou  or  ducks  fly  down  in  thicker  flocks  upon  the 
trembling  prairie  across  the  red  disk  of  the  setting  sun ; 
never  did  guns  pop  so  briskly  as  when  he  looked  in  upon 
that  scene ;  never  was  the  life  of  Malay  or  Islingue  more 
tempting,  never  was  his  vagrancy  more  precious  to 
him. 

Was  it  destiny,  or  the  Virgin  Mary,  that  made  Mr. 
Talbot  open  the  door  suddenly  one  night  and  catch 
Cribiche  there,  and,  as  he  tried  to  escape,  pull  him  into  the 
room  dirty,  barefooted,  barelegged,  open-shirted  as  he 
was?  What  did  Cribiche  think  was  going  to  happen  to 
him?  What  did  he  expect?  He  was  audacious,  but 
not  impudent,  and  he  looked  miserable  enough  in  his 
confusion  as  the  grip  upon  his  shoulder  pushed  him  into 
a  chair,  and  a  book  was  shoved  before  him :  "  We  are 
all  studying  here,  Cribiche,  you  must  study  too." 

We  might  well  ask  again  with  Pere  Phileas :  Was  it 
not  the  Virgin  Mary  who  did  thus  act  the  part  of  the 
wisest  and  tenderest  of  mothers  in  giving  the  vagabond 
over  to  such  a  master,  without  doubt,  the  most  elegant 
scholar  in  St.  Medard? — and  more;  the  sole  one,  before 
whose  eyes  the  boy  trembled.  It  is  not  always  the  most 
serious  who  are  the  least  attractive  to  children;  the 
most  severe  who  are  the  least  respected;  the  most  feared 
who  are  the  least  loved.  Cribiche  in  his  heart  was  more 
afraid  of  the  tall,  pale  American  gentleman  than  he  was 
of  God,  whose  fear  Pere  Phileas  had  been  preaching  to 
him  all  his  life. 


CRIBICHE  181 

Just  as,  when  commanded  to  arise,  the  dead  man  did 
arise,  so  Cribiche,  when  commanded  to  study,  did  study 
.  .  .  that  night  and  every  night  afterward. 

Who  else  but  she,  the  Virgin  Mary,  could  have  done 
it? 


JERRY 

IN  the  program  for  the  future,  it  had  been  agreed  be 
tween  Jerry  and  his  master  that  the  two  eldest  girls 
should  be  hired  out  as  servants  as  soon  as  possible  and 
that  Jerry  should  seek  employment  in  his  trade  of  car 
penter.  This,  with  Matilda's  wages  as  cook  and  with 
their  home  provided,  would  insure  not  only  comfort  to 
the  freed  slaves  but  enable  them  to  save  something  to 
meet  the  "  emergencies,"  as  they  might  be  called,  of  their 
freedom :  the  illnesses,  deaths,  and  disabling  accidents 
that  had  been  hitherto  the  master's  portion. 

As  he  had  planned  for  his  own  life  so  Mr.  Talbot 
planned  for  the  negro's  and  did  nothing  by  halves.  He 
carefully  explained  to  the  negro  that  the  principles  that 
formed  the  basis  of  his  dealings  with  other  men  and 
other  men's  dealings  with  him  were  the  same  truth, 
honesty,  hard  work,  courage,  patience,  that  he,  Jerry, 
had  possessed  as  a  slave ;  and  that  all  he  had  to  do  now 
to  fulfil  his  duty  to  God  and  man  was  to  continue  living 
in  the  future  as  he  had  done  in  the  past.  A  good  slave 
was  bound  to  make  a  good  free  man.  His  children  were 
of  an  age  to  help  him,  which  was  a  great  advantage; 
Matilda  was  an  honest,  industrious  woman;  his  trade 
was  one  in  which  he  was  sure  to  find  employment.  The 
master  said  he  had  never  seen  a  good  carpenter  who 
was  not  well  to  do.  Jerry  listened  as  he  always  did  to 
his  master,  devoutly  raising  his  large  intelligent  eyes  to 

i8a 


JERRY  183 

him  from  time  to  time ;  his  great  hard  hands  lying  heavily 
on  his  knees  like  hands  of  bronze.  His  thick,  grizzled 
wool  stood  out  in  even  height  all  over  his  head,  in 
creasing  its  size  with  fine  effect;  a  short  grizzled  beard 
covered  the  lower  part  of  his  face ;  leaving  his  large  lips 
bare.  His  expression  was  of  perfect  truth  and  honesty. 

"I'll  do  my  best,  Master;  I'll  do  my  best,"  was  the 
answer  he  made  from  time  to  time. 

"  You  must  not  only  do  your  best ;  you  must  see  that 
your  family  does  its  best,  too,"  with  a  slight  laugh. 
'''  You  know  you  are  your  own  overseer  and  master  now." 

The  negro  did  not  smile  at  this.  He  had  a  face  that 
seldom  smiled;  a  serious,  plodding  face. 

"  It  will  seem  strange  at  first  being  in  the  city ;  but  you 
must  not  think  about  the  city :  your  work  will  be  the  same 
in  the  city  that  it  was  in  the  country.  Keep  to  your  work 
and  keep  to  yourself.  The  city  is  full  of  strange  negroes 
who  are  up  to  all  kinds  of  mischief;  keep  away  from 
them.  A  lazy  negro  is  a  bad  negro,  as  you  know  yourself. 
When  you  see  a  crowd  of  lazy  negroes,  herding  together 
like  sheep  as  they  are  doing  in  that  old  warehouse  on 
the  Levee,  you  may  be  sure  they  are  doing  no  good  to 
themselves  or  to  any  one  else.  Keep  away  from  them 
and  keep  Matilda  and  your  girls  away  from  them.  I 
cannot  do  anything  to  help  you  in  this,  you  must  do  it  all 
yourself." 

"  I'll  do  my  best,  Master." 

"  I'll  give  you  a  recommendation — that  is  a  paper  tell 
ing  who  you  are  and  what  you  can  do ;  guaranteeing  you 
as  the  good,  honest,  industrious  man  you  have  proved 
yourself  to  be.  Your  character  and  your  capability  as 
a  workman  are  your  stock  in  trade;  and  I  can  tell  you 


1 84      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

many  a  white  man  has  made  a  fortune  starting  with  less 
of  that  than  you  have.  Show  your  paper  when  you  ask 
for  work.  As  I  pass  in  the  cars,  I  see  some  piled-up 
lumber  on  the  Levee ;  there  must  be  a  lumber-yard  there 
or  a  sawmill;  I  should  think  you  could  find  work  there. 
And  show  your  recommendation  when  you  apply  for 
work  for  Henrietta  and  Julia.  People  naturally  think 
that  a  good  man  has  good  daughters.  Go  over  there  to 
the  barracks,  perhaps  some  of  the  officers'  families  need 
servants.  Take  any  wages  they  offer.  Henrietta  and 
Julia  do  not  know  much  about  housework  but  they  can 
learn.  You  had  better  explain,  Jerry,  that  they  have 
never  worked  much  about  a  house,  and  though  they  look 
rough  and  awkward,  they  will  soon  learn.  You  take 
them  yourself,  and  hire  them  out  and  collect  their  wages 
— as  they  are  both  under  age — just  as  I  would  have  done 
once,  if  I  were  hiring  you  out/' 

"  Yes,  Master,  I'll  do  my  best." 

The  next  morning  the  father  and  the  two  daughters, 
dressed  in  their  best  clothes  as  if  they  were  going  to 
church,  started  out  on  their  momentous  errand.  Jerry 
had  his  recommendation  in  his  pocket;  but  he  carried 
it  so  well  written  on  his  face,  that  the  paper  could  have 
been  demanded  only  by  a  person  very  ignorant  of  negro 
physiognomy.  It  was  not  difficult  to  find  situations  for 
the  strong,  good-looking  girls,  ignorant  and  awkward  as 
they  were.  Although  the  city  was  swarming  with  the 
disbanded  negroes  from  ruined  plantations  and  homes  all 
over  the  State,  wages  were  high;  servants  hard  to  get, 
and  harder  to  hold.  From  the  utmost  luxuriance  and 
extravagance  of  retinue,  households  had  fallen  to  the 
barest  necessities.  Freedom  from  slavery  meant  free- 


JERRY  185 

dom  from  work  or  it  meant  nothing  to  the  negroes. 
Here  and  there  an  old  man  or  woman  would  be  seen 
toiling  stolidly  along  in  the  old  routine,  although  the 
door  of  their  prison  stood  open  before  them.  Inured  to 
chains,  perhaps  more  at  their  ease  with  them  than  with 
out  (even  if  the  chains  were  forged  of  sentiment  and 
affection  as  some  of  them  seem  to  have  been),  they  still 
remained  in  servitude  when  servitude  grew  harder  and 
harder  under  the  changed  conditions — when,  in  truth, 
it  became  a  slavery  such  as  no  former  state  of  slavery 
could  be  compared  with.  But  these  were  all  old  negroes. 
The  young  were  foot  loose.  There  was  nothing  to  bind 
them  or  to  constrain  them,  neither  past,  present,  nor 
future.  They  drank  to  their  heart's  content  from  the 
cup  of  their  new  liberty  and  gave  themselves  up  to  the 
delights  of  its  intoxication.  There  was  no  master,  over 
seer,  or  driver  for  them  now  by  day;  no  patrol  to  de 
mand  passes  of  them  by  night.  By  night  and  by  day 
they  could  go  now  where  they  pleased,  as  well  as  do  as 
they  pleased.  No  one  now  could  force  them  to  work,  or 
keep  them  at  work  if  they  wished  to  quit.  They  could 
leave  the  baby  crying  in  the  cradle,  the  dinner  cooking 
on  the  stove,  the  clothes  in  the  washtub — nobody  could 
prevent,  nobody  could  punish  them.  That  was  the  best 
of  all,  they  were  free  henceforth  from  punishment! 
They  even  could  be  impudent  with  impunity  now  to 
the  whites ;  to  those  sacred  whites  against  whom  to  raise 
a  hand  was  once  a  capital  crime  for  a  slave.  They  could 
have  white  people  arrested  now  and  taken  before  any 
provost  marshal.  And  if  the  whites  were  not  "  loyal," 
as  it  was  called,  to  the  conquerors  in  the  war,  the  negroes, 
merely  because  they  were  negroes — and  so  loyal — could 


1 86     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

gain  any  case  against  them,  would  in  fact  be  believed 
before  them.  They  could  now  curse  white  men,  aye  and 
even  white  women,  to  their  faces,  and  if  they  were  South 
ern  white  men  and  women  be  only  laughed  at  for  their 
insolence  by  the  people  in  power.  The  negro  soldiers 
could  shove  them  out  of  their  way  in  the  cars,  push  and 
jostle,  soldiering  them  as  one  may  say,  with  their  white 
officers  standing  by,  indifferent,  if  not  smiling  at  them. 
They,  the  negroes,  had  been  freed  and  exalted — so  their 
preachers  preached  to  them — their  owners  conquered  and 
abased.  They,  the  negroes,  were  the  victors;  to  them 
belonged  the  spoils  and  they  were  ready  to  claim  them. 
Social  equality  was  granted  them;  wherever  a  white 
man  went  a  black  man  could  go.  Whatever  a  white  man 
did  a  black  man  could  do.  There  was  nothing  now  but 
political  equality  to  obtain,  which,  on  account  of  their 
numbers  and  the  disfranchisement  of  the  whites,  meant 
political  superiority.  And  white  men,  from  the  victori 
ous  side's  political  party  that  had  brought  on  and  gained 
the  war,  were  even  now  forming  parties  in  the  State,  to 
gain  this  last  triumph  for  them,  and  with  it  their  vote. 
There  were  old  ladies  still  living  in  the  city  who, 
sitting  in  their  quiet  rooms,  said  that  they  knew  all  about 
revolutions :  their  mothers  had  related  to  them  what  had 
taken  place  in  the  French  revolution.  WTiatever  hap 
pened,  these  old  ladies  shook  their  heads  and  predicted 
something  worse.  They  counseled  prudence,  submis 
sion,  for  they  felt  the  cut  of  the  guillotine  still  in  their 
blood.  There  were  other  old  ladies,  too,  who  said  they 
knew  all  about  it :  their  mothers  had  fled  from  the  insur 
rection  of  the  slaves  in  Santo  Domingo,  and  whatever 
happened  they  also  predicted  something  worse,  for  they 


JERRY  187 

felt  still  in  their  blood  what  they  could  never  relate  to 
their  children;  what  they  only  could  describe  as  "God 
alone  knew  what  followed  "... 

Jerry  hired  out  both  his  daughters  into  service  in  the 
barracks  and  secured  work  for  himself  as  carpenter. 

At  night,  when  the  lessons  were  going  on  in  the 
master's  house,  the  negroes  would  be  gathered  around  the 
flickering  light  of  the  fire  on  their  hearthstone  and  they 
would  turn  together,  as  it  were,  the  page  of  the  day's 
experience.  Not  the  pages  filled  with  Latin  declensions 
and  Greek  verbs,  that  puzzled  and  saddened  the  little 
minds  over  the  way,  but  mirth-provoking  pages  to  the 
negroes — for  at  first  they  experienced  nothing  but  what 
they  could  laugh  at ;  and  they  laughed  at  everything  that 
differed  from  their  plantation  standard.  And  more  than 
anything  else,  they  laughed  at  their  own  race :  "  A  city 
nigger  was  no  nigger  at  all." 

Sometimes  the  master,  coming  in  to  give  an  order, 
seeing  them  thus  laughing,  talking,  and  dozing  together 
before  their  fire,  would  say  wearily  to  himself :  "  They 
are  as  happy  as  ever  they  were." 

But  the  two  elder  girls  grew  more  and  more  like  the 
city  niggers  that  they  at  first  despised  and  mocked;  less 
like  the  country  niggers  they  had  been  so  proud  to  call 
themselves.  Little  by  little  they  discarded  their  planta 
tion  garb :  the  colonnade  gown,  heavy  rawhide  shoes, 
and  headkerchief s ;  and  little  by  little  assumed  hats, 
calico  dresses,  and  high  heel  boots.  In  three  months  they 
had  traversed  the  stage  from  the  one  costume  to  the 
other.  To  their  father  these  were  dubious  signs,  but  to 
Matilda  they  were  glad  tidings.  She  craved  not  for 
herself  to  go  into  the  Canaan,  the  Land  of  Promise,  that 


i88      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

she  heard  was  lying  before  all  negroes  for  them  to  go  in 
and  take  possession  of.  She  counted  upon  remaining 
upon  this  side  of  Jordan  with  Jerry  and  her  white  people, 
in  the  colonnade  gown,  headkerchief,  and  rawhide  shoes 
of  the  days  of  her  slavery.  But  she  laughed  ecstatically 
to  herself  over  her  work  when  she  thought  of  her 
daughters  in  their  new  finery,  as  she  would  have  laughed 
had  she  heard  they  wore  the  robes  of  salvation,  the 
mystical  finery  of  a  negro's  dreams  during  slavery. 
Salvation :  That  was  the  negro's  hope  in  slavery — to  save 
their  souls  and  go  to  God.  And  as  they  were  slaves,  and 
black,  and  sinners  as  well,  they  indulged,  not  hopes,  but 
certainties  of  salvation.  The  freed  negroes  soon  learned 
not  to  worry  themselves  about  salvation.  What  could 
heaven  give  above  what  they  had  been  given  and  what 
was  promised  them? 

The  girls  soon  lost  their  places,  but  Jerry  found  others 
for  them;  and  all  went  well  as  before  except  that  they 
came  home  only  once  a  week  instead  of  every  night. 
They  lost  the  second  places  before  their  month  ended, 
and  Jerry  found  situations  for  the  third  time.  .  .  . 

After  that  he  lost  track  of  their  engagements.  They 
went  in  and  out  of  their  places  without  reference  to  him. 
They  told  their  mother  what  they  chose  and  she  believed 
what  they  told  her. 

One  day  it  came  to  Jerry,  while  he  was  planing  a 
plank,  to  throw  down  his  tool  and  go  and  see  what  his 
daughters  were  doing.  He  went  off  as  he  was,  in  his 
apron  and  shirt  sleeves. 

When  he  came  home  after  dark  Matilda  saw  that 
something  had  happened  to  him.  He  came  in  and  sat 
down  and  held  his  head  in  his  two  hands  and  would  not 


JERRY  189 

speak ;  as  she  had  seen  a  negro  man  do  on  the  plantation 
when  he  came  home  alone  from  a  frolic  that  he  had  gone 
to  with  a  companion.  He  said  his  mate  had  fallen  out 
of  the  pirogue  and  drowned;  but  the  plantation  always 
thought  he  had  thrown  him  out  of  the  pirogue  and 
drowned  him.  Matilda  could  think  only  of  this,  as  she 
closed  the  doors  and  windows.  But  Jerry  was  worn 
out  with  hunger,  fatigue,  and  sorrow;  that  was  all. 
When  she  won  him  to  talk  to  her,  the  tears  rolled  down 
his  cheeks,  and  she  knew  he  had  not  killed  anyone. 

He  told  her  how  it  came  to  him,  when  he  was  working 
and  not  thinking  of  his  girls  at  all,  to  go  and  hunt  them 
up.  A  kind  of  voice  came  to  him.  He  threw  down  his 
plane,  left  his  work  and  went,  as  he  was.  That  was  all 
he  knew  at  first.  He  walked  and  walked  from  place  to 
place,  until  he  got  on  their  traces,  and  then  he  tracked 
them  to  where  they  were.  They  were  not  in  any  place 
.  .  .  they  had  not  been  in  a  place  for  a  month  .  .  .  they 
were  at  the  "  Settlement,"  with  the  negroes  there,  both 
of  them.  They  had  lied  when  they  said  they  were  work 
ing.  They  were  not  working  .  .  .  they  were  living  with 
the  negroes  there — living  like  they  lived  .  .  .  They  had 
lied  to  Matilda  and  to  him.  .  .  . 

"  Did  you  see  them  ?  "  she  asked. 

He  had  seen  them ;  he  had  talked  to  them  and  he  told 
Matilda  what  he  had  said  to  them,  and  what  they  had 
said  to  him,  how  they  had  answered  him  .  .  . 

When  Matilda  heard  what  they  said  and  how  they  said 
it  her  fury  stopped  her  mouth  for  an  instant.  Then 
when  she  began  to  talk  she  was  beside  herself  with  pas 
sion.  She  swore  she  would  go  to  the  "  Settlement  " ;  she 
would  drag  those  "  nigger  girls  "  out ;  she  would  cut 


i9o     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

their  vitals  in  two ;  she  would  stamp  the  life  out  of  them ; 
she  would  .  .  .  All  the  old  hideous  plantation  threats 
of  an  African's  fury  rolled  from  her  hot  tongue. 

Jerry  shook  his  head,  saying  nothing.  But  when,  hav 
ing  talked  herself  to  the  point  of  action,  she  seized  a 
knife  and  made  a  rush  for  the  door,  he  caught  her  and 
held  her.  She  now  turned  in  her  frenzy  upon  him; 
forgetting  everything  else.  She  fought  him  like  a  wild 
animal,  tried  to  use  her  knife  on  him.  Thin,  supple,  lithe 
as  an  eel,  she  was  a  match  for  him  unless  he  used  his 
full  strength  upon  her.  Again  and  again  she  almost  got 
through  the  door.  She  had  reached  it,  opened  it,  and 
was  fighting  in  the  crack  of  it,  when  at  last  Jerry,  getting 
between  her  and  the  door,  gave  her  a  push  that  sent  her 
to  the  other  side  of  the  room,  where  she  fell  against  the 
bed. 

"  Go  and  call  Master,"  he  ordered  his  youngest  girl 
Maria,  who  was  cowering  in  a  corner. 

The  master  came  and  the  mistress  behind  him.  They 
had  heard  only  Matilda's  garbled  accounts  of  the  girls, 
and  thought  them  still  at  work.  Now  they  heard  the 
truth  as  Jerry  gave  it.  Wherever  he  went,  tracking  them 
from  one  place  to  the  other,  from  their  first  situation  in 
an  officer's  family  in  the  barracks  to  their  last  one,  he 
had  found  but  one  account  of  them — that  they  were  lazy, 
impudent,  and  thievish.  From  her  last  place  Henrietta 
had  stolen  a  dress,  and  her  employers  were  looking  for 
her  to  have  her  arrested.  He  went  finally  to  the  "  Settle 
ment,"  and  there  found  them.  They  told  him  they  were 
not  going  to  work  any  more;  that  they  could  make  as 
much  money  as  they  wanted  without  working  and  that 
they  were  free,  anyhow,  to  do  as  they  pleased.  When 


JERRY  191 

Jerry  ordered  them  to  come  along  with  him  they  were 
impudent  to  him;  they  "  sassed  "  him.  When  he  threat 
ened  to  whip  them  they  laughed  at  him  and  gave  him 
"  the  dare  "  to  do  it  .  .  .  they  looked  him  straight  in  the 
face  and  dared  him  to  touch  them. 

Matilda  broke  out  again  with  her  threats.  Her  master 
ordered  her  to  be  silent.  He  questioned  her;  she  gave 
reluctant,  surly  but  respectful  answers. 

"  What  do  you  want  to  do  about  it,  Jerry  ?  "  he  asked, 
turning  to  him. 

"  I  want  to  fetch  them  back  and  punish  them.  Such 
conduct  ought  to  be  punished,  Master,  you  know  it  ought 
to  be  punished." 

"  But  you  have  tried  that.  They  won't  come  back. 
How  do  you  propose  to  make  them  come  back  ?  " 

"If  I  find  them/'  screamed  Matilda,  "  so  help  me 
God,  but  I'll  fetch  'em  back!  Let  me  once  lay  eyes  on 
them,  I'll  ..." 

"  And  if  you  bring  them  back,"  the  calm  voice  of  her 
Master  interrupted  her,  "  how  long  do  you  think  you 
will  keep  them  here?  " 

"  I'll  keep  'em !  Just  let  me  get  'em  here,  I'll  keep 
'em !  "  and  she  began  her  threats  again. 

"  Do  as  you  please,  Jerry,"  the  master  turned  to  him ; 
"  but,"  shaking  his  head,  "  I  can  tell  you,  it  is  too  late 
now." 

"  But  I  must  have  my  children  back,  Master,"  and 
Matilda  began  to  cry.  "  I  must  have  them  back !  " 

"  Don't  cry,  Mammy !  don't  cry !  "  called  out  the  little 
girls,  impulsively  from  the  door  where  they  were  peep 
ing  in. 

Their  father  sternly  ordered  them  away. 


192      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

"  Master,"  said  Jerry,  "  I  can't  let  my  children  stay 
with  thieves  and  rascals." 

"  Have  you  searched  their  things  ?  " 

"  No,  Sir." 

11  Go  at  once  and  search  them." 

'  They  ain't  got  no  things  to  search,  Master,"  whim 
pered  Matilda.  "  They  took  all  their  things  away  with 
them." 

She  opened  the  pine  chest  in  which  they  had  brought 
their  clothes  from  the  plantation. 

"  Look  in  their  bed.  Look  under  the  mattress."  This 
was  the  traditional  hiding-place  of  the  negroes. 

Jerry  went  into  the  next  room  with  a  light.  They 
heard  him  turn  the  mattress  up  and  give  an  exclamation. 
"  Master,  come  here !  "  he  called. 

The  turned-up  mattress  showed  a  slit  and  bulging 
moss.  Jerry  held  in  his  hand  a  spool  of  thread,  a  hand 
kerchief,  a  ribbon.  He  tore  out  more  moss;  a  towel, 
a  pair  of  scissors,  a  pair  of  stockings  came  out  with  it. 

Matilda  started  forward,  as  mother  and  negro,  to 
stay  Jerry  from  further  revelations. 

"  Matilda,"  asked  her  Master,  "  how  much  did  you 
know  of  this?" 

"  Master !  I'm  no  thief,  you  know  I'm  no  thief !  before 
God  .  .  ." 

"  That's  enough !  Jerry,  try  to  return  what  you  can  of 
these  things.  I  suspect  some  of  them  came  from  the 
barracks.  And  go  to  that  woman  and  pay  for  the  dress. 
If  you  haven't  the  money,  come  to  me  and  get  it.  And 
let  Julia  and  Henrietta  know  that  if  I  catch  them  about 
here,  I  will  have  them  arrested  and  sent  to  jail." 

Then  the  master  and  his  wife  left  the  room.     Going 


JERRY  193 

across  the  yard,  he  said  to  her :  "  Jerry  is  honest,  but 
Matilda  knew  they  were  stealing." 

The  negroes  were  never  the  same  afterward.  Matilda 
grew  sulky  and  quarrelsome,  Jerry  silent  and  morose. 
Both  suffered  for  the  want  of  their  children.  On  the 
plantation,  during  slavery,  if  Jerry  had  caught  his 
daughters  stealing,  he  would  have  whipped  them  and  that 
would  have  ended  the  matter.  He  would  have  whipped 
them  if  they  had  been  impudent  or  disrespectful  to  him. 
If  they  had  refused  to  work  they  would  have  answered 
to  the  overseer.  If  Matilda  had  caught  them  acting 
badly,  she  would  have  whipped  them.  They  had  stolen, 
they  had  acted  badly,  they  had  been  impudent  and  lazy, 
and  they  had  received  no  punishment.  Even  the  master 
did  not  talk  of  punishing  them  but  of  having  them  ar 
rested  and  sent  to  jail.  Jerry  tried  to  study  it  out. 

He  plodded  along  in  his  work.  He  made  good  wages 
and  brought  them  home  and  locked  them  in  his  chest. 
When  Spring  came  he  would  go  into  the  garden  of  an 
afternoon  and  work  with  his  master  and  the  two  boys 
planting  vegetables;  peas,  beans,  okra,  beets.  ...  At 
night  there  was  no  more  talking  around  the  hearth. 
Matilda  sat  in  the  kitchen,  smoking  her  pipe.  He  sat 
to  himself,  smoking  his  pipe  and  "  studying "  as  he 
called  it. 

Out  of  his  studying  in  the  past  had  ^ome  great  things 
for  the  plantation.  He  seemed  to  carry  everything  in 
his  mind  that  he  had  ever  seen,  but  he  had  to  "  study  " 
to  get  anything  out  of  it.  His  master  used  to  go  to 
him  as  to  a  book  of  reference.  When  the  time  came 
on  the  plantation  that  the  people  there  had  to  weave  their 
own  cloth  or  go  without  clothing,  his  master  said  to 


194     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

him :  "  Jerry,  do  you  remember  that  old  loom  that  Aunt 
Patsy  used  to  weave  on?  I  can  see  her  now,"  and  he 
made  the  motion  of  flinging  the  shuttle  and  working 
the  beam.  "  I  can  see  the  whole  thing  so  distinctly  that 
I  believe  we  could  make  a  loom  together,  you  and  I; 
you  were  playing  around  her  as  much  as  I  in  the  old 
time." 

Jerry  answered  in  his  cautious  way :  "  I  will  study  it 
out,  Master,  and  see."  He  studied  it  out,  knife  in  hand, 
whittling  from  soft  cypress  a  little  piece  here,  a  little  piece 
there;  fitting  them  together;  looking  at  them;  pulling 
them  apart;  whittling  again;  fitting  again;  until  he 
showed,  at  last,  his  model  to  his  master,  and  then  from  it 
made  a  loom.  How  to  warp  the  yarn — he  studied  that 
out  too;  and  from  experiment  to  experiment,  failure 
after  failure,  he  succeeded  in  creating  from  memory 
both  loom  and  weaving,  and  all  the  cloth  that  was  needed 
on  the  plantation  was  made  there.  He  had  studied 
out  how  to  cure  and  smoke  beef,  how  to  dress  leather, 
how  to  make  shoes  ...  He  had  even  pieced  together 
long  hymns,  from  the  fragments  carried  in  his  memory 
from  childhood;  hymns  that  all  the  negroes  remem 
bered  but,  as  they  said,  could  not  recall.  Anything  that 
had  taken  place  on  the  plantation  since  he  had  been  there, 
give  him  time  to  study  about,  and  he  could  report  with 
perfect  accuracy:  the  number  of  staves  cut  at  such  a 
time,  the  bushels  of  corn  raised  in  such  a  field,  where 
each  certain  mule  had  been  bought  and  the  long  lists  of 
the  different  shipments  of  sugar.  He  had  even  studied 
out  how  to  pull  teeth  and  to  bleed  people. 

His  great  useful  hands  lay  idle  at  his  side ;  they  could 
not  whittle  out  the  thoughts  that  lay  in  his  head  now, 


JERRY  195 

could  not  help  him  in  studying  out  what  was  before  him 
this  time. 

He  would  come  to  his  master  of  an  evening  as  he  was 
sitting  on  the  gallery,  to  put  some  of  his  questions  to  him. 

"  Master,  what  is  it  keeps  white  folks  straight  ?  They 
ain't  got  no  overseer  to  whip  them." 

"  They  get  their  straightening  when  they  are  children 
if  they  have  sensible  parents,"  his  master  had  answered, 
laughing.  "  I  know  what  kept  me  straight  and  so  do 
you." 

"  What  keeps  you  straight  now,  Master  ?  "  he  asked 
seriously. 

"  Myself,"  answered  his  master  confidently. 

"  Master,  why  can't  niggers  keep  themselves  straight, 
without  whipping,  like  white  folks  do  ?  " 

"  The  good  ones  do.  You  kept  straight,  you  have 
never  been  whipped  since  you  were  a  boy." 

Jerry  shook  his  head.  "  Master,  if  I  had  got  my 
deserts,  I  would  have  been  whipped  many  a  time  since 
I  was  a  man." 

The  master  laughed  at  his  frankness  and  responded 
with  the  same :  "  So  should  I,  Jerry,  to  tell  you  the 
truth." 

"  Master,"  persisted  the  negro,  not  to  be  put  off :  "  If 
white  folks  needed  whipping  to  keep  them  straight  they 
would  get  the  whipping  if  they  had  to  whip  one  another 
for  it — they  would  get  it.  But  niggers  ain't  that  way. 
Niggers  won't  keep  each  other  straight,  like  white  folks 
do.  The  white  folks  kept  the  niggers  straight,  the  nig 
gers  don't  do  it  for  themselves.  Master,"  looking  him 
in  the  face,  "  how  long  would  the  niggers  on  the  planta 
tion  have  kept  straight  if  you  hadn't  been  there  or  the 


ig6      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

overseer?  That  plantation  wouldn't  have  been  a  fit 
place  for  even  niggers  to  live  in,  if  the  niggers  had  had 
to  look  out  for  the  straightness  of  it,  themselves.  You 
know  that,  Master." 

His  master  nodded  his  head  and  smoked  in 
silence. 

"  But,  Master,  what  puzzles  me  and  what  I  can't  study 
out,  no  matter  how  hard  I  try ;  if  God  wanted  us  niggers 
to  be  like  white  folks,  why  didn't  he  make  us  like  white 
folks?  He  wants  us  to  have  white  folks'  natures,  but 
he  gives  us  nigger  natures.  If  we  go  according  to  our 
natures,  we  are  bad.  We've  got  to  go  according  to  white 
folks'  natures  to  be  good,  and  when  white  folks  are  bad 
they  go  according  to  nigger  natures." 

As  his  master  did  not  reply,  perhaps  for  the  best  of 
reasons,  Jerry  continued : 

"  Master,  over  there,  where  we  all  come  from,  from 
.  .  .  Africa  .  .  .  (even  the  best  of  negroes  hate  to 
pronounce  the  name)  what  sort  of  folks  is  the  niggers 
there  ?  They  ain't  got  no  white  folks  there.  Well,  what 
sort  of  niggers  is  they  there?"  He  paused  for  an 
answer,  which  did  not  come.  "  I  asked  Marse  Billy  one 
day,  and  he  told  me  they  were  savages.  They  go  naked, 
they  eat  one  another.  And  how  we  come  here  is :  those 
niggers  over  there  caught  us  like  chickens  and  traded 
us  off  for  rum,  or  for  anything  the  traders  gave 
them  .  .  .  That's  how  the  white  folks  got  us  and 
brought  us  over  here  into  slavery.  Isn't  that  so, 
Master?" 

"  That's  about  it,  Jerry." 

"  Master,  did  you  ever  hear  of  white  folks  selling 
their  folks  to  niggers  for  slaves  ? " 


JERRY  197 

"  Oh !  in  old  times,  Jerry,  there  were  all  kinds  of 
slavery.  Don't  you  remember  about  the  children  of 
Israel  and  the  Egyptians?" 

Jerry  shook  his  head  dubiously. 

"  Well,  now,  Jerry,"  his  master  with  cheerful  voice 
questioned  him  in  his  turn :  "  how  do  you  account  for  it 
that  the  negroes  are  so  religious  if  they  do  not  want  to 
be  good?  You  were  all  of  you  always  singing  hymns 
and  praying  and  preaching  and  having  revivals  down  in 
the  quarters.  It  seemed  to  me  then  you  were  always 
wanting  to  be  the  best  people  on  earth." 

"  It's  the  sinners  that  need  praying  for,  Master,  not 
the  good,"  he  answered  with  simplicity,  and,  rising  from 
the  step  on  which  he  had  been  seated  he  added — and 
now  there  was  not  a  tinge  of  doubt  in  his  voice,  or 
misgiving  in  his  mind — "  God  will  forgive  sinners ;  He 
says  that,  if  they  repent  ...  if  they  repent.  That's 
what  makes  us  repent.  Even  the  greatest  white  gentle 
man  cannot  go  to  Heaven  unless  he  repents,  you  know 
that,  Master;  but  the  vilest  sinner  can,  no  matter  what 
the  color  of  his  skin  is.  Old  master  taught  us  that; 
and  he  was  right." 

And  lifting  his  head  as  if  with  reinforced  strength 
and  dignity,  he  walked  back  to  his  gallery. 

What  he  had  studied  out,  when  the  first  talk  of  free 
dom  turned  his  thoughts  toward  the  great  subject,  had 
been  thrown  into  confusion  by  the  conduct  of  his 
daughters  and  the  talk  of  the  negroes  about  him.  One 
of  the  answers  he  had  received  oftenest  from  his  girls  to 
his  expostulations  was :  "  I'm  a  nigger  and  I'm  going  to 
live  like  a  nigger  and  I'm  as  good  as  white  folks  any 
how."  The  people  at  the  Settlement  repeated  it,  as  they 


ig8      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

stood  around  jeering  at  him.  His  fellow  workmen  at 
the  carpenter  shop  said  the  same  thing.  The  black 
soldiers  that  he  met  in  the  cars  said  the  same  thing. 
Matilda  would  not  mention  the  absent  girls  to  him  and 
when  he  talked  about  them  she  would  not  blame  them. 
She,  too,  was  beginning  to  think  that  there  was  a  white 
wrong  and  a  black  wrong;  a  different  code  of  morality 
for  a  different  skin. 

Jerry,  in  his  trouble,  would  recur  again  and  again  to 
his  old  master,  the  father  of  the  present  one,  a  rigid 
Presbyterian,  who  enforced  repentance  and  salvation 
upon  his  slaves  with  far  more  severity  than  he  enforced 
work.  "  Ye  shall  be  holy,  for  I  am  holy."  There  was 
no  distinction  allowed  by  him  for  color  in  that  command 
and  sinners  found  small  mercy  at  his  hands  when  delin 
quencies,  like  those  of  Jerry's  daughters,  came  under  his 
jurisdiction.  And  his  slaves  when  they  were  submitting 
to  chastisement  were  made  to  know  that  their  master  be 
lieved  it  was  a  question  of  their  souls,  of  their  salvation 
from  eternal  damnation. 

Now,  they  could  damn  their  souls  as  they  pleased, 
there  was  no  one  to  interfere  or  hinder.  On  the  old 
plantation,  besides  being  punished,  they  would  have  been 
prevented  or  hindered.  They  would  have  had  no  chance 
to  be  bad  even  if  they  had  wanted  to.  And  as  they  lived 
in  the  fear  of  their  strict  stern  master,  so  he  lived,  as 
they  knew,  in  the  fear  of  God. 

Looking  up  to  the  stars,  which  as  he  thought  lighted 
the  Heaven  where  the  old  gentleman  had  gone :  "  Old 
Master,"  whispered  Jerry  plaintively,  "  I  wish  you  were 
here  to  look  after  your  niggers.  God  don't  look  after 
your  niggers  as  you  used  to." 


JERRY  199 

At  last,  one  dismal,  one  painful  morning,  when  he 
came  to  make  the  fire  in  the  house,  he  rapped  at  the 
chamber  door  of  his  master  and  mistress,  and  standing 
in  the  cold  gray  gloom  he  told  them  (the  words  sound 
ing  familiar  from  old  association)  that  Matilda  had 
run  away,  not  from  them,  but  from  him;  run  away 
during  the  night  while  he  slept,  taking  Maria  with  her; 
"  run  away,  like  a  runaway  nigger,"  he  repeated  in  his 
humiliation. 

In  the  blank  emptiness  and  silence  that  succeeded  to 
his  family  life  he  held  on  to  his  work  and  to  his  house 
hold  tasks;  to  the  fidelity  to  duty  in  which  he  had  been 
raised ;  to  the  future  that  his  master  had  planned  for  him, 
and  that  he  knew  God  approved  of.  But  he  could  not 
forget  his  wife  and  his  children,  although  they  could 
forget  him. 

He  sat  up  evenings  alone  in  his  room,  where  at  first 
they  had  been  so  happy  laughing  over  the  ways  of  "  city 
niggers,"  wrestling  with  his  nature,  as  he  would  have 
called  the  struggle,  striving  for  the  other  nature,  accord 
ing  to  which  negroes  had  to  live  to  be  good.  He  would 
hurry  through  the  path  to  his  work  and  back ;  never  look 
ing  about  him,  never  stopping,  as  if  afraid  he  might  see 
or  meet  some  of  them. 

In  vain !  When  Spring  came,  fresh,  as  it  were  to  him, 
from  the  plantation,  bringing  the  merry  voices  and 
laughter  of  the  quarters,  the  cackling  of  chickens,  bark 
ing  of  dogs,  the  brisk  jingling  of  the  harness  of  the 
mules  as  they  trotted  out  to  the  field  with  their  noisy 
riders  sitting  sideways  upon  their  bare  backs  .  .  .  above 
it  all  he  heard  the  voice  of  Matilda  calling  to  the  girls, 
and  the  voices  of  the  girls  stepping  out  with  their  water- 


200      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

buckets  balanced  on  their  heads;  little  Maria  sitting  in 
her  little  chair  that  he  had  made  for  her.  .  .  . 

In  vain!  In  vain!  One  morning — as  bright  a  morn 
ing  as  Spring  could  bring — he  threw  down  his  tools  as 
he  had  done  once  before,  and  started  off  almost  running, 
hardly  knowing  what  he  was  doing ;  but  his  feet  brought 
him  straight  to  where  his  mistress  sat  alone  with  her 
sewing.  He  told  her — and  as  he  talked  his  solid-looking 
tears  rolled  over  his  thick  beard  down  to  his  blue  shirt — 
he  told  her  he  had  to  go  to  them — to  Matilda,  and  to  his 
girls. 

Her  good,  faithful  Jerry!  Her  friend  and  servant 
who  had  stood  by  her  during  the  war  .  .  .  many  a  time 
her  only  help!  He  alone  of  all  the  plantation  knew 
the  hard  path  she  had  been  set  to  walk  in,  and  how  at 
times  she  shrank  back  in  fear,  how  her  feet  trembled, 
and  how  her  heart  grew  faint.  She  did  not  have  to  tell 
him.  He  knew,  and  she  knew  that  he  knew  it  all.  She 
did  not  have  to  tell  him.  .  .  .  Her  tears  ran  too,  straight 
from  her  heart  to  her  eyes.  Ah!  That  dreadful  future! 
worse;  worse  than  the  war!  This  had  not  been  in  the 
plan ;  no  more  sorrow  had  been  there,  no  more  partings. 

She  told  him  he  was  right  to  go,  for  she  knew  that 
was  what  he  yearned  to  hear;  she  told  him  to  go  to  his 
wife  and  his  daughters,  that  God  would  not  abandon  him 
— He  saw  it  all ;  He  would  be  over  him  wherever  he  was, 
at  the  Settlement  or  with  his  white  people.  .  .  .  And 
they  would  all  meet  together  some  day,  and  be  together 
and  never,  never  part.  So  she  talked  as  she  used  to  do 
to  the  dying  on  the  plantation,  and  it  soothed  him  as  it 
had  always  soothed  them ;  and  it  soothed  her  too. 

He  had  almost  gone,  when  he  returned,  picked  up  her 


JERRY  201 

dress,  and  hid  his  face  in  it,  sobbing :  "  Master,  Mistress, 
Master,  Mistress." 

Later  in  the  day  he  might  have  been  seen,  with  his 
small  bundle  of  clothes  over  his  shoulder,  walking  up 
the  road  to  the  Settlement. 


THE    SAN    ANTONIOS 

EVERYBODY  in  St.  Medard  knew  that  the  San  Antonios 
had  begun  their  life,  that  is,  of  course,  their  wealth,  in  a 
barroom  on  the  river  front.  But  Madame  Joachim  re 
membered  them  even  before  that,  when  they  kept  an 
oyster-stand  on  the  Levee  itself  and  opened  oysters  and 
sold  drinks  to  anybody  who  came  along — dagoes,  roust 
abouts,  negroes — for  it  was  at  that  time  Joachim,  him 
self,  was  running  an  oyster-lugger  between  Barrataria 
and  the  city  and  gaining  the  appearance  that  made  people 
think  of  a  pirate  whenever  they  saw  him.  The  oyster- 
stand  grew  into  a  shop,  and  the  shop  into  a  saloon,  where 
fine  fresh  Barrataria  oysters  were  sold,  the  best  sharpener 
of  the  appetite  for  drink,  as  drink  is  the  best  sharpener 
of  the  appetite  for  oysters. 

After  this  the  classic  road  to  Avernus  was  not  more 
easy  than  Tony's  to  fortune.  At  that  time,  Antonia, 
Maria,  and  Lisida  were  crawling  around  in  the  mud  of 
the  gutter  in  front  of  the  saloon,  "  and  that,"  said 
Madame  Joachim,  "  was  the  beginning  of  the  Demoi 
selles  San  Antonio/' 

The  saloon-keeper  cannot  but  grow  rich,  provided,  of 
course,  that  he  be  as  sober  as  his  clients  are  drink-loving. 
His  investment  seems  to  return  the  surest  of  earth's 
profits.  But  as  in  other  trades  and  with  other  staples, 
the  demand  must  be  fostered,  the  customer  encouraged, 
the  consumption  stimulated.  The  weak  beginner,  the 

202 


THE  SAN  ANTONIOS  203 

timid  irresolute  one  in  constant  strife  with  his  tempta 
tion,  he  to  whom  not  having  the  price  of  a  drink  means 
the  doing  without,  he  must  be  tided  over  his  failures  of 
weakness,  as  cotton  and  sugar  planters  at  times  have 
to  be  tided  over  their  failures  of  strength  by  their  bankers. 
He  has  to  be  helped  patiently  along  with  credit  until 
he  is  trained  into  a  reliable  client  .  .  .  until  the  week's 
earnings,  the  watch  from  the  pocket,  the  wedding  ring 
from  the  finger,  the  silver  from  the  table,  the  market 
money  from  the  wife,  the  hoard  of  a  saving  mother, 
the  loans  extorted  by  lying  from  friends,  the  purloinings 
from  the  till, — until  the  barkeeper  sees  it  all  coming  in 
a  safe  and  sure  flow  across  the  bar ;  until  the  once-timid 
speculator  in  intoxication  at  last  ceases  his  struggle  with 
his  passion  and  comes  to  know  no  other  will  but  its  will ; 
to  have  no  other  hope  but  to  prolong  its  pleasure ;  until 
every  drink  taken  becomes  one  more  turn  of  the  key 
winding  up  the  automaton  into  the  regular  motion  of 
so  many  steps  away  from  the  saloon,  so  many  steps  back ; 
until  Sobriety  is  the  one  dread  left  in  the  drunkard's 
mind ;  to  keep  it  away  his  one  preoccupation. 

Sobriety,  however,  does  come  to  him  from  time  to  time. 

Any  one  can  see  the  conscience-driven  wretch,  in  some 
early  hour  of  the  morning,  shivering  in  the  hottest  Sum 
mer,  outside  the  door  of  the  saloon.  It  is  the  only  way 
remorse  ever  does  come  to  the  drinking  shop.  Then  the 
bar-keeper  gives  more  credit,  unless  he  is  a  poor  bar 
keeper  indeed.  In  this  way  he  is  necessarily  a  money 
lender  also,  turning  the  cash  from  selling  drinks  into 
loans  for  buying  them,  adding  golden  links  of  interest  to 
each  end.  The  process  is  an  endless  chain;  endless  as 
the  weakness  and  the  cunning  of  man.  And  not  in  this 


204      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

way  alone  was  money  cast  upon  the  waters  to  come 
back  in  its  own  good  or  evil  time.  It  was  known  that 
Tony,  after  shaving  the  pockets  of  the  poor  man,  shaved 
the  notes  of  the  rich;  that  when  money  was  needed 
desperately,  more  than  life — more  than  honor  as  some 
times  happens — when  money  has  to  be  procured,  at  no 
matter  what  cost,  and  the  transaction  covered  up  like 
murder,  Tony  was  known  vaguely  to  be  the  man  for  the 
deed;  and  stocks  and  bonds,  title  deeds  and  mortgages, 
family  secrets  and  political  influence,  flowed  into  his 
coffers  from  this  source.  No  one  knew  how  much  money 
he  had,  only  that  he  always  had  it  to  lend. 

"  God  knows,"  said  Madame  Joachim,  "  how  the 
children  got  into  the  Ursuline  convent." 

But  this  was  hardly  so  difficult  a  piece  of  knowledge  as 
to  warrant  an  appeal  to  the  Supreme  Authority.  Any 
one  who  has  seen  the  lugger  landing  and  its  drinking- 
shops  and  drinking-shoppers,  and  the  gutters  that  serve 
as  drains  thereto;  and  seen  at  the  same  time,  as  one 
must  see,  the  old  Cathedral,  hard  by, — might,  without 
divine  omniscience,  draw  the  inference  necessary  to  con 
nect  little  girls  playing  in  the  gutter  with  the  pure  re 
treat  of  the  Ursuline  convent.  Particularly  when,  by 
one  of  those  facts  incomprehensible  to  logic-loving 
humanity,  the  little  girls,  who  for  very  virtue's  sake 
should  have  been  ugly  and  repulsive,  were  on  the  con 
trary  pretty  and  attractive — too  pretty  and  attractive, 
despite  their  degrading  condition,  to  escape  the  apostolic 
successors  of  those  shrewd  eyes  that  once  before  had 
discerned,  non  Angli,  sed  Angeli,  in  white  faces  and 
nude  bodies. 

And  the  same  eyes  were  shrewd  enough  perhaps  to 


THE  SAN  ANTONIOS  205 

detect  that  no  one  has  more  money  to  spend  on  children 
or  the  church  than  the  rich  bar-keeper,  if  he  can  be 
brought  to  do  so.  At  any  rate  Maria,  Antonia,  and 
Lisida  were  taken  from  the  gutter  and  sent  to  the  con 
vent,  and  once  in  charge  of  the  sisters  their  parents 
showed  little  concern  for  them.  So  completely,  indeed, 
did  they  become  children  of  St.  Ursula,  so  well  were  they 
dedicated  in  advance  to  her  service,  that  in  the  expecta 
tions  of  the  wise  in  such  matters  there  was  no  more 
probability  of  their  ever  leaving  the  convent  for  the 
world  than  for  children  reared  by  the  devil  leaving  the 
world  for  the  convent. 

One  child  had  died — a  boy.  Around  him  clung  what 
ever  of  parental  love  Tony  and  his  wife  could  feel.  All 
that  they  did  not  know  of  the  universe,  all  that  they  in 
their  ignorance  could  not  know,  would  have  been  easier 
for  them  to  understand  than  the  fact  that  the  boy  they 
wanted  died,  and  that  the  girls  they  did  not  want  lived. 
No  priest  or  church,  assuredly,  would  ever  have  gotten 
their  boy  from  them.  When  he  died  their  affections, 
like  vines  whose  trestles  have  been  destroyed,  crept  hence 
forward  upon  the  ground. 

Such  people  do  not  read  newspapers.  In  fact  the 
wife  could  not  read.  National  questions  were  as  much 
above  their  interest  as  the  stars,  which  they  never  looked 
at.  The  fish  in  the  deep  sea  were  not  more  passive  under 
the  agitations  of  the  storm  overhead  than  the  San 
Antonios  to  the  muttered  threats,  finally  breaking  out, 
of  the  war  between  the  North  and  the  South.  But, 
like  the  fish,  in  the  absence  of  finer  knowledge,  they 
guided  themselves  by  instinct.  And  although  Tony 
knew  only  that  in  a  fight  the  stronger  beats  the  weaker, 


206     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

this  was  an  immense  superiority  of  knowledge  over  that 
possessed  by  the  majority  of  the  community  in  which  he 
lived.  When  war  was  declared  he  said  no  more  about 
it  than  the  oyster  in  his  hands;  but  he  ceased  to  make 
personal  loans,  and  turned  his  securities  into  gold.  He 
bought  Confederate  money  from  the  timid  for  gold, 
and  sold  it  for  gold  to  the  confident;  trading  on  the 
passion  for  patriotism  as  he  had  traded  on  the  passion 
for  drink.  Running  like  a  ferryboat  from  shore  to  shore, 
collecting  fares  before  landing,  he  plied  between  hope 
and  fear,  working  in  the  same  secret  and  mysterious 
way  that  he  made  his  loans,  for  he  was  never  missed  from 
his  bar.  While  armies  were  being  equipped,  and  com 
panies  raised,  and  men  were  going  out  from  his  very 
bar  to  die  for  their  country — and  some  of  his  most 
drunken  clients,  those  who  were  the  most  abject  cowards 
in  the  morning  about  facing  the  world  without  a  drink, 
did  die  for  it  heroically — Tony  said  nothing,  but  bought 
cotton.  When  the  ships  of  the  enemy  made  their  ap 
pearance  at  the  mouth  of  the  river,  and  the  price  of 
cotton  fell,  like  a  dropping  stone,  he  bought  cotton. 
During  the  sharp  but  futile  fight  between  the  enemy's 
vessels  and  the  forts  that  guarded  the  approaches  to  the 
city,  when  the  young  men  were  hastening  away  into  the 
Confederacy,  and  the  old  ones  stood  in  the  streets  listen 
ing  to  the  guns  and  counting  the  minutes  between  them 
and  ruin,  Tony  bought  cotton,  at  lower  and  lower  prices. 
When  the  enemy's  ships  passed  the  forts  and  all  that 
war  could  inflict  hung  in  dread  over  the  city,  and  when 
seeing  itself  doomed  to  capture  it  fell  into  the  rage  of 
despair  that  vents  itself  in  wanton  violence  and  destruc 
tion,  Tony,  shutting  and  bolting  his  barroom,  left  his 


THE  SAN  ANTONIOS  207 

wife  inside  and  was  seen  by  her  no  more  for  twenty-four 
hours.  While  the  furious  rabble  rioted  in  drunken 
frenzy;  while  packs  of  wild  negroes,  screaming  with 
delirious  joy,  rushed  through  the  streets  aimlesly  like 
yelping  dogs  in  the  night;  while  stores  of  powder  were 
being  exploded,  and  millions  of  dollars  of  cotton  and 
sugar  burned;  while  warehouses  and  groceries  were 
thrown  open  for  pillage  and  whisky  and  liquor  ran  in 
the  gutters  and  stood  in  pools  like  water;  while  boats 
were  being  fired  and  sent  down  the  current  in  flames, 
and  the  bank  opposite  the  city  seethed  in  one  conflagra 
tion,  from  burning  ships  and  shipyards;  while  the 
lurid  clouds  hung  like  another  fire  over  the  city,  and  the 
heavens  turned  to  the  blackness  of  pitch  with  smoke; 
while  bells  rang  an  unceasing  alarm — Tony  like  a  rat 
was  slipping  in  and  out  of  the  hiding-place  that  he  alone 
knew  about;  an  old,  empty,  abandoned  saloon  whose 
batten  doors  and  shutters  were  covered  with  the  dust 
and  cobwebs  of  years.  But  like  most  saloons  it  had  a 
back  entrance  upon  an  alleyway  that  had  been  opened 
for  the  purpose  of  providing  back  entrances — exits  they 
literally  were — to  the  buildings,  whose  needs  required 
at  times  means  of  quick  and  secret  evasions.  This  was 
where  Tony  had  stored  his  cotton — the  building  was 
packed  with  it.  When  the  enemy's  fleet  anchored  in 
front  of  the  city  and  the  despair  of  grief  succeeded  to 
the  despair  of  rage;  when  in  truth  there  was  nothing  left 
to  be  destroyed;  when  the  enemy  landed  and  marched 
through  the  streets — and  had  the  cobblestones  under 
their  feet  been  human  hearts  the  anguish  they  caused 
could  not  have  been  greater — then  Tony  returned  to  his 
saloon,  unlocked  the  door,  and  began  opening  oysters 


208      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MfiDARD 

again.  When  he  left  it  the  night  before,  he  counted  his 
dollars  by  tens  of  thousands,  now  he  counted  them  by 
hundreds  of  thousands.  The  great  battleships  that 
brought  disaster,  death,  havoc,  and  ruin  to  the  city, 
with  suspense  and  dread  to  last  a  half  century  longer, 
were,  in  sober  truth  to  him,  not  battleships  at  all,  but 
argosies  of  silver,  masted  with  gold,  rigged  with  silken 
sails,  musical  with  thrilling  flutes  and  with  Cleopatras, 
aye!  with  Cleopatras  had  he  wished  them,  greeting  him 
from  damask  cushions. 

At  the  Ursulines'  convent  Spring  comes  prettier  than 
anywhere  else  in  New  Orleans;  for  she  comes  bringing 
not  only  flowers  for  the  convent  garden,  but  white  dresses 
and  blue  ribbons  for  the  convent  girls;  and  the  Easter 
lilies,  themselves,  might  envy  the  young  convent  girls, 
as  in  the  early  light  of  a  Sunday  morning  they  wend  their 
way,  in  their  white  dresses  and  blue  ribbons  and  white 
veils,  walking  two  by  two,  under  the  bright  green  trees, 
to  the  chapel.  The  lilies  might  have  envied,  and  pitied, 
them  too,  as  the  young  girls  pitied  the  beautiful  lilies  on 
the  eve  of  Easter,  with  the  fate  of  the  gardener's  scissors 
hanging  over  them.  The  convent  girls  knew  that  the 
enemy's  vessels,  thirty  or  forty  of  them,  were  lying  in 
the  passes  of  the  river ;  but  they  knew  too  that  their  city 
could  never  be  taken,  that  their  men  could  never  be 
vanquished,  that  God  was  with  them  and  they  with  God 
in  the  present  war.  The  great  tocsin  of  St.  Patrick's, 
as  all  the  church  bells  of  the  city,  had  been  given  to  the 
Confederate  Government,  to  be  made  into  artillery. 
Cannon  made  of  consecrated  metal,  shooting  consecrated 
balls !  The  vision  of  it  fired  the  young  hearts  with  holy 
flames  and  made  them  wish  that  they  might  be  the  ones 


THE  SAN  ANTONIOS  209 

to  serve  that  ordnance.  Every  little  girl  there  who  had 
a  father,  brother,  uncle  or  cousin  in  the  forts  that  guarded 
the  river — and  each  one  had  some  relative  there  or 
elsewhere  in  the  army — held  her  head  as  high  as 
if  she  were  trying  to  reach  her  soaring  heart  with  it, 
that  virgin  heart,  higher  up  in  the  clouds  than  ever! 
The  poor  orphans,  the  charity  scholars  and  half  menials, 
were  never  pitied  so  compassionately  as  then ;  their  hard 
fate  and  isolated  lives  in  the  community  were  never 
so  sadly  considered;  their  outcast  lot,  deprived  of  the 
glory  and  honor  of  defending  their  country,  was 
apparent  even  to  the  convent  slaves. 

As  for  the  sisters,  never  among  the  Ursulines  of 
Louisiana  could  there  be  found  a  fear  for  Louisiana  be 
fore  the  enemy.  They  too  were  happy  enough  in  their 
gentle,  pious  way,  except  perhaps  the  Mother  Superior, 
who  must  have  been  too  old  a  denizen  of  the  world  of 
men  or  of  God  to  have  any  more  hopes  or  fears  left 
in  her  heart.  She  must  have  cast  them  away,  long  ago, 
as  grave-cloths  of  the  soul. 

They  were  happy  enough  at  the  convent,  therefore, 
until  the  firing  began  at  the  forts.  At  the  first  shot, 
confidence  was  shaken;  at  the  second,  it  vanished;  at 
the  third,  the  young  girls  gave  a  scream  that  brought  the 
Mother  Superior  to  them  in  haste.  Louder  and  louder 
grew  the  bombardment,  fiercer  and  fiercer  the  cannon. 
Sisters  and  scholars  were  hurried  to  the  chapel.  Once 
before  in  dire  extremity  of  battle,  when  an  overwhelming 
force  threatened  the  city,  when  the  British  came  to 
conquer  and  spoil  it,  the  Sisters  had  prayed  and  God 
had  heard  them.  General  Jackson,  himself,  had  come 
to  the  convent  after  the  battle  and  assured  them  that 


210     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

their  prayers  and  the  favor  of  the  Almighty  had  saved 
the  city,  not  he  and  his  handful  of  men.  The  convent 
could  not  have  prayed  more  fervently  then  than  now. 
Every  shot  that  sounded,  sped  to  Heaven  with  a  prayer 
to  avert  its  ball.  "  Oh,  Thou,  Our  Lady  of  Prompt  Suc 
cor,  help  but  this  time,  once  more !  Remember,  how  first 
Thou  guidedst  us  through  the  tempests  of  the  ocean  to 
this  country!  Remember,  how  when  the  conflagration 
raged  in  the  city,  threatening  to  consume  us,  Thou 
turnedst  back  the  flames  from  the  convent  door!  Re 
member,  oh  remember,  how  once  before  Thou  gavest  us 
the  victory ! "  But  God's  face  was  turned  away  from 
them.  Our  Lady  of  Prompt  Succor  could -not  succor 
them  this  time. 

The  bombardment  ceased,  the  event  was  decided,  and 
still,  when  praying  was  all  too  late,  they  prayed  with 
frightened  lips,  the  rosary  slipping  through  their  icy, 
trembling  fingers.  That  night  they  watched  the  lurid 
light  spread  over  the  city,  flaming  up,  through  the  rolling 
smoke.  The  river  itself  seemed  to  be  on  fire.  They 
could  hear  the  explosions  and  at  times  the  roar  of  the 
voice  of  the  frenzied  populace.  At  last  word  was  brought 
them  that  the  forts  had  been  passed  and  that  the  ships 
were  on  their  way  to  the  city. 

Throughout  the  night,  white  forms  glided  about  the 
dormitories,  from  the  beds  to  the  windows.  In  the 
early  gray  of  dawn,  the  time  when  watchers  by  the 
sick  always  look  for  death,  the  first  gunboat  slowly 
steamed  by  the  convent.  Fearful,  fearful,  fearful  ap 
parition!  stopping  the  breath,  freezing  the  blood.  At 
sight  of  it,  one  little  girl  screamed  in  agony :  "  Papa, 
Papa !  "  and  fell  fainting.  The  rest  could  look  no  more. 


THE  SAN  ANTONIOS  211 

They  ran  back  to  their  little  beds  again  and  laid  their 
faces  upon  them  and  cried. 

And  the  sisters!  The  nuns,  the  white  veils  and  the 
black  veils!  Alas!  the  veils  were  rent  asunder  for  that 
once  and  all  the  holy  mystery  of  the  hearts  enshrined 
behind  the  pale  impassive  faces  was  revealed.  They  too 
had  fathers,  brothers,  uncles,  cousins,  in  the  forts — for 
the  Ursulines  recruit  their  ranks,  as  the  Confederate 
army  did  theirs,  from  the  best  families  in  Louisiana — 
and  of  what  account  are  vows  and  renunciations  when 
the  woman's  heart  is  pierced?  Of  what  use  are  black 
veils  or  white  veils,  when  the  enemy  advances  over  the 
corpses  of  her  kin? 

But  the  Demoiselles  San  Antonio  looked  on  dry-eyed. 
They  had  no  one  in  the  contest  to  weep  over.  No  cannon 
ball  could  render  them  more  brotherless  or  kinless  than 
they  were.  They  winced  not  at  the  echoing  boom,  shrank 
not  from  the  sight  of  the  passing  gunboats  as  their  com 
panions  did.  And  well  might  these  do  so!  As  those 
vessels  passed  before  the  convent,  family,  friends,  ease, 
comfort  passed  out  of  their  lives;  leaving  behind,  be 
reavement,  desolation,  poverty,  wretchedness!  The 
gaunt  specter  of  war  itself,  flying  over  the  convent  roof, 
could  not  have  sent  down  more  directly  upon  their  de 
fenseless  heads  the  thunderbolts  of  its  dire  tempest. 

But  not  upon  the  Demoiselles  San  Antonio,  whose 
father  was  creeping,  like  a  rat,  in  and  out  among  his 
cotton  bales.  Over  their  heads  the  golden  cornucopia  was 
turned  and  all  the  choicest  Spring  flowers  of  fortune 
showered  down  upon  them;  luxury,  love,  and  enjoyment 
of  their  youth  and  beauty  fell  down  upon  them  like  the 
mystical  roses  upon  Sainte  Rose  de  Lima.  The  moment 


212      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

of  crucifixion  for  the  others  was  their  moment  of  trans 
figuration. 

For  one  who  has  lived  through  the  experience  it  is 
clear  that  the  true  fruits  of  conquest  come  not  all  at  once 
in  the  moment  of  victory,  but  are  a  succession  crop,  yield 
ing  gratuitous  reapings  of  profits  to  the  one  side  as  of 
pains  and  penalties  to  the  other  with  unfailing  regularity 
for  many  years  afterward;  as  the  true  mortality  of  a 
battle  is  not  the  number  of  killed  on  the  field  but  the 
resultant  roll  of  the  dead  in  the  ensuing  years.  This 
could  not  be  apparent  at  the  time  to  the  people  of  New 
Orleans,  so  unused  to  conquest,  who  it  may  be  said, 
despite  their  vaunted  love  of  fighting  and  military  glory, 
knew  not,  as  the  event  proved,  what  real  war  was. 

It  must  have  been  the  surprise  of  his  life  to  Tony, 
"  a  heavenly  surprise  "  he  might  have  called  it,  to  find 
that  when  he  thought  he  was  at  the  end  he  was  only  at 
the  beginning  of  his  harvest:  that  his  gold  and  paper 
money  speculations  and  his  cotton  buying  were  but  the 
prelude  of  what  was  to  follow.  He  had  not  dreamed  of 
the  wholesale  confiscations  of  property  all  over  the  city, 
the  auctioning  off  of  buildings  by  the  block,  of  houses 
and  stores  with  their  contents  for  a  mere  percentage  of 
their  value;  the  secret  sales  of  trembling  owners  in  fear 
of  confiscation;  the  hidden  cotton  that  still  could  be 
touched;  the  bargains  from  panic-stricken  women,  the 
endless  reach  of  money-making,  even  beyond  this,  for 
any  one,  like  him,  who  had  no  scruples  about  buying 
and  none  about  compounding  with  the  auctioneer  who 
sold,  the  officer  who  seized,  the  soldier  who  guarded. 
San  Antonio  could  compound  with  all  officers,  soldiers, 
white  and  black,  camp-followers,  and  roughs  from  the 


THE  SAN  ANTONIOS  213 

purlieus  of  other  cities.  In  a  way,  he  knew  well  that,  con 
querors  though  they  were,  they  were  but  men  as  the  con 
quered  had  been,  men  who  had  the  same  taste  for  oysters 
and  liquor.  He  bought  in  property  of  all  kinds,  spoiling 
the  spoilers  and  looting  the  looters  of  their  cotton,  houses, 
silver  jewelry,  velvets,  furniture,  libraries,  pictures, 
pianos,  carriages,  horses,  carpets,  India  shawls, 
diamonds,  laces,  the  riflings  of  fine  ladies'  wardrobes, 
the  treasures  of  baby  layettes,  for  many  a  soldier  came 
into  possession  of  these  so  cheaply  that  anything  he  sold 
them  for  was  a  profit  to  him.  Runaway  slaves  brought 
and  sold  to  him  what  they  had  stolen  and  every  runaway 
then  was  a  thief.  Successions  of  absent  Confederates 
were  opened  and  settled  in  ways  so  convenient  to  money 
makers,  that  the  corpse  went  to  his  tomb  not  more  be 
reft  of  worldly  goods  than  the  absent  heir  was  when  he 
returned  to  his  heritage.  Money,  money,  money  was 
cast  out  upon  the  streets  as  sugar  and  liquor  had  been 
when  the  city  fell,  for  any  one  to  pick  up  and  enjoy  who 
did  not  mind  the  filth  on  it. 

From  the  convent  windows,  as  one  looked  down  the 
river  over  the  roof  of  the  convent  chapel,  could  be  seen 
the  chimneys  and  the  tops  of  the  cedar  and  magnolia 
trees  of  what  was  known  as  the  old  Havel  place.  The 
old  Havels  had  fled  in  a  ship  to  Havana,  in  the  first 
panic  of  the  invasion,  leaving  behind  what  indeed  they 
loved,  only  less  than  one  another,  their  home :  It  was 
the  prettiest  one  in  the  parish  of  St.  Medard  and  no  one 
in  the  Parish,  even  the  most  unworthy,  could  walk  past 
it  on  the  Levee,  without  feeling  a  covetous  desire  to 
possess  it.  The  fence  that  surrounded  it  was  of  brick 
topped  by  an  iron  railing  of  delicate  design  which  at 


2i4      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

regular  intervals  was  upheld  by  brick  pillars  that  sup 
ported  vases,  holding  century  plants.  It  was  called  the 
"  Villa  Bella."  Its  real  name  was  "  Isabella,"  the  name 
of  the  bride  for  whom  it  had  been  built;  but  as  the 
bride  and  her  husband  and  the  villa  aged,  the  pretty  name 
in  gilded  lettering  over  the  gate  had  become  rusted  and 
dimmed  and  finally  lost  under  the  vine  that  had  been 
planted  in  the  bridal  time,  to  encircle  it  with  roses. 

A  broad  brick  walk,  bordered  with  shrubbery,  led  to 
the  house  whose  gallery  was  floored  with  white  and  black 
marble  and  instead  of  a  balustrade  had  pedestals  of 
marble  holding  vases  of  growing  plants  with  vines  hang 
ing  over  the  sides.  In  the  center  of  the  garden  on  one 
side  was  a  fountain,  on  the  other  a  sun  dial  with  a  setting 
of  flowers  in  parterres  encircling  them.  Under  the 
magnolia  and  cedar  trees,  white  plaster  casts  of  nymphs 
and  fawns  seemed  to  be  shrinking  back  in  the  shade  cast 
by  the  heavy  green  branches  overhead. 

The  old  Havels  had  furnished  their  house  as  a  young, 
romantic,  bridal  couple  with  taste  and  fortune  would 
furnish  a  home  for  their  love  with  fine  lace  and  satin 
curtains,  with  rose  wood  and  mahogany,  bronze  and 
marble  statuettes,  Sevres  and  Palissy  vases;  with  silver 
and  cut  glass  candelabra  and  chandeliers;  with  pictures 
and  with  mirrors  everywhere.  No  matter  in  which  direc 
tion,  at  what  angle  they  looked,  the  bride  and  her  hus 
band  might,  by  lifting  the  eyes,  see  the  reflection  of 
their  happiness  and  their  luxury.  The  old  Spaniard  felt 
secure  in  his  generosity  as  he  had  contributed  money 
to  the  defense  of  the  city  against  its  invaders.  When 
the  invaders  triumphed,  therefore,  the  property  was  con 
fiscated  at  once,  sold  at  auction,  and  bought  by  Tony. 


THE  SAN  ANTONIOS  215 

Thus  the  Demoiselles  San  Antonio  were  provided  with 
a  home  just  when  they  were  leaving  the  convent  and 
needed  one.  And  it  was  one  of  the  prettiest  roses  that 
fell  to  them  from  the  gilded  cornucopia.  Heaven,  by 
sending  them  the  tender est  of  parents,  could  hardly  have 
benefited  them  so  well  as  by  sending  them  the  sordid, 
selfish  ones  they  had ;  who,  to  get  rid  of  them,  had  gladly 
thrust  them  out  of  their  drinking  saloon  home  into  the 
pure,  holy  atmosphere  of  the  Ursuline  convent  and  by 
never  going  to  see  them  there,  had  saved  them  from  the 
shame  that  comparison  with  parents  of  other  scholars 
would  have  produced. 

But,  the  old  villa  ?  Old  houses  like  old  families  never 
seem  to  fall  in  one  clean  drop  from  height  to  depth,  they 
are  always  caught  by  some  crag  or  bush  growing  on  the 
side  of  the  precipice  and  there  kept  gibbeted  through 
their  slow  decay  in  no  matter  what  ridiculous  posture. 
The  short,  quick  termination  of  destruction  has  no  terror 
for  the  original  owner  in  comparison  with  such  a  tragi 
comical  ending.  Had  the  Villa  Bella,  however,  been 
closer  to  the  center  of  the  city's  life,  it  might  have  been 
caught  in  a  still  more  ridiculous  position,  for  all  its  re 
fined  appearance  and  the  tender  sentiment  of  the  old 
couple  who  in  it  had  watched  their  young  and  rosy  love 
grow  old,  bent,  and  wrinkled  it  is  true,  but  yet  remaining 
none  the  less  love  to  them. 

To  their  neighbors,  particularly  to  Madame  Joachim 
the  San  Antonios  were  no  better  than  masqueraders  in 
the  old  villa ;  like  the  negroes  who  of  Mardi  gras  nights 
go  to  their  balls  dressed  in  the  second-hand  finery  of  the 
whites.  There  was  not  one  among  them  who  had  not  a 
jibe  ready  when  opportunity  offered  for  the  slinging  of 


216     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

one.  "  No  wonder  that  his  daughters  were  admitted  to 
the  Ursuline  convent/'  sneered  they.  "  No  wonder  they 
sing  so  well." 

"  Ah,  yes !  They  did  sing  well ;  their  voices  soaring 
like  birds  from  a  cage,  out  of  the  house,  over  the  trees, 
to  the  public  road  so  that  passers-by  could  not  refrain 
from  stopping  and  listening  to  them.  Even  the  young 
American  officers  from  the  barracks,  sauntering  along 
the  Levee  with  their  dogs  of  an  evening,  would  stop,  and 
had  been  heard  to  remark  one  to  another :  "  How 
strange  it  is,  one  never  hears  such  music  from  American 
parvenues!  No  matter  how  much  money  their  fathers 
have  they  always  seem  to  suffer  from  an  extreme  poverty 
of  talent." 

When  one  wanted  to  buy  five  cents'  worth  of  milk  or 
eggs  or  anything  that  Madame  San  Antonio  had  to  sell — 
for  different  from  Pere  Phileas,  she  gave  nothing — one 
went  not  through  the  vine-festooned  front  portal,  but 
through  a  distant  backgate  and  ran  for  fear  of  the  dogs 
through  a  path  that  led  to  the  basement  of  the  house, 
where  Madame  San  Antonio  would  be  found  sitting 
before  a  table  counting  eggs  or  oranges ;  sorting  pecans, 
plaiting  garlic,  straining  vinegar  or  bottling  Merise — as 
the  Creoles  call  Cherry  Bounce — dressed  in  the  colonnade 
skirt,  calico  sacque,  and  blue  check  apron  of  her  barroom 
days ;  with  a  long  black  pocket  tied  by  a  tape  around  her 
waist;  a  perfect  market  woman. 

"  Madame  San  Antonio,  Maman  dit  comme  ca,  un 
picaillon  de  .  .  ."  and  while  she  counted  or  measured 
the  little  girls  would  stop  and  listen  to  the  singing,  milk- 
pitcher  or  basket  in  hand,  forgetting  everything,  until 
like  the  trump  of  judgment  came  to  them  the  thought  that 


THE  SAN  ANTONIOS  217 

they  must  go.  And  Madame  San  Antonio?  What  was 
Faust, L'Africaine, Charles  VI  to  her  ?( for  they  sang  only 
airs  from  grand  opera,  the  Demoiselles  San  Antonio). 
Madame  San  Antonio  heard  them  not  at  all,  but  went 
on  plunging  her  hands  into  this  basket  and  that,  this 
bucket  and  that,  stopping  only  to  blow  her  nose  on  her 
red  and  yellow  cotton  handkerchief.  And  San  Antonio? 
When  he  came  in  from  his  business  in  the  city  and  took 
his  seat  in  the  basement,  his  flannel  cap  pulled  over  his 
eyes,  and  a  red  handkerchief  tied  around  his  neck,  he  did 
not  seem  to  hear  his  daughters  any  more  than  his  wife 
did ;  any  more  than  when  he  was  in  his  barroom  and  they 
in  their  convent. 

Three  afternoons  of  the  week  Mademoiselle  Mimi  came 
to  practise  with  the  young  ladies,  and  every  morning 
came  Madame  Doucelet  for  her  day's  attendance  upon 
them.  This  had  been  arranged  by  the  superior  of  the 
convent  when  she  had  also  advised  that  the  Villa  should 
be  substituted  for  the  barroom  as  a  home,  when  it  seemed 
good  to  her  for  the  young  ladies  to  leave  the  convent: 
their  vocation  not  being  that  of  St.  Ursula. 

Madame  Doucelet  was  of  the  kind  always  to  be  found 
at  the  doors  of  convents  and  churches  as  other  guides  are 
to  be  found  at  the  doors  of  museums — thin,  wrinkled, 
sallow,  somewhat  bent,  dressed  in  mourning,  of  good 
family,  with  a  name  that  can  serve  as  passport  into 
society — one  of  those,  in  short,  who  seem  in  every  gen 
eration  to  be  reduced  providentially  to  poverty  in  order 
to  serve  those  who  are  as  providentially  elevated  to 
wealth. 

She  was  so  shabby,  in  her  old  black  bonnet  and  pointed 
black  cachemire  shawl  pinned  tight  across  her  shoulders, 


218      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  M&DARD 

and  seemed  so  far  removed  from  the  brilliant  world  of 
fashion,  that  no  one  but  that  wisest  of  women — a  superior 
of  a  convent — would  have  suspected  her  intrinsic  merit 
as  an  initiator  into  the  mysteries  of  the  manners,  dress 
ing,  and  customs  of  good  society;  her  vocation,  in  fine, 
in  religious  parlance,  of  a  worldling. 

"  Religion  and  music,"  she  thus  explained  herself  to 
Mademoiselle  Mimi,  "  what  more  can  a  woman  want  ? 
Religion  for  the  soul ;  music  for  the  heart." 

The  Demoiselles  San  Antonio  possessed  these  qualifica 
tions  in  perfection ;  that  is  if  the  practice  of  devotion  be 
called  religion,  and  singing  music.  As  Maria  was  not 
so  precocious  as  her  younger  sisters,  and  as  Lisida  was 
more  precocious  than  her  elders,  the  three  went  through 
the  gentle  curriculum  of  the  convent  abreast;  and  as 
they  entered  it  together  as  babies,  so  they  left  it  together, 
as  young  ladies.  It  may  be  said,  that  they  were  well 
educated ;  for  whatever  they  could  learn,  the  convent  had 
taught  them.  They  were  drilled  in  good  qualities,  and 
knew  all  about  them  whether  they  possessed  them  or  not : 
discretion,  truthfulness,  patience,  industry,  obedience, 
resignation,  and  the  wholesome  restraint  of  the  feelings 
— or  when  this  was  not  possible,  that  concealment  of 
them  which  comes  from  the  consciousness  that  they  were 
always  in  sight  or  earshot  of  a  sister,  whether  they  saw 
her  or  not. 

Of  books,  they  knew  what  they  studied  in  classes,  or 
received  as  prizes ;  the  pretty  gilt  and  pink,  blue  or  green 
volumes  of  pious  histories  authorized  by  the  church  as 
the  proper  reward  for  convent  excellence.  Of  the  world 
outside  their  schooling  they  knew  only  what  the  sisters 
told  them,  and  they  did  not  imagine  aught  else  about  it, 


THE  SAN  ANTONIOS  219 

for  it  was  one  of  the  qualities  of  convent  education  that 
the  imagination  (that  cursed  seed  of  damnation,  planted 
by  the  subtlety  of  the  serpent  in  the  mind  of  woman  in 
Paradise),  since  it  could  not  be  extirpated,  was  trained 
upwards  in  the  harmless  direction  of  Heaven.  Their 
hearts,  therefore,  had  been  kept  pure,  as  the  saying  is, 
their  minds  innocent.  In  short,  the  convent  had  done 
its  best  for  them.  It  had  taught  them  the  only  thing  they 
could  learn;  had  cultivated  their  one  talent — music — 
and  not  in  a  niggardly  way  either,  for  when  the  limit 
of  the  convent  standard  and  means  had  been  reached,  a 
professor  of  singing  was  procured  from  the  city  for  them, 
the  best  professor  there,  and  they  were  never  excused 
from  practising  their  piano. 

Madame  Doucelet's  duty  was  to  accompany  the  young 
ladies  whenever  they  went  out — never  to  let  them  go  into 
the  street  without  her  had  been  the  charge  given  her — 
and  to  teach  them  how  to  dress.  Slipping  in  every  morn 
ing,  wrapped  in  her  shawl,  her  reticule  clasped  tight 
against  her  breast,  she  took  them  into  the  city  to  the 
shops,  showing  them,  what  of  course  they  had  never  seen 
before,  the  infinite  devices  and  inventions  for  adorning 
and  enhancing  the  interests  of  women  in  the  world ;  that 
is  their  beauty.  Showing  them,  what  also  they  had  never 
seen  before,  their  own  capital  of  beauty  and  how  it  could 
be  profitably  increased;  by  vigilance  here,  enterprise 
there.  The  poor  idea  of  the  nuns  was  that  a  woman's 
beauty  was  of  her  soul  and  that  could  only  be  increased 
by  spiritual  adornment. 

Mademoiselle  Mimi,  when  she  took  her  position  at  the 
piano  three  times  a  week  for  the  performance  of  her 
duty,  could  observe  the  progress  Madame  Doucelet  was 


220     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

making  in  the  fulfilment  of  hers:  Maria's  waist  grow 
ing  hebdominally  smaller,  more  corset-like,  her  com 
plexion  whiter;  Antonia's  slimness  more  sinuous  and 
graceful;  Lisida's  fulness  more  engaging.  The  hair 
of  each  one  had  commenced  to  travel  at  once  from  the 
rigid  uniformity  of  the  convent  coiffure,  for  what  is 
hair  or  coiffure  to  the  soul?  Maria's  long,  thick  plaits 
were  wound  around  her  classic  head ;  Antonia's  were  un- 
plaited  and  coiled  loosely.  Lisida's  hair,  which  had  been 
her  sin  almost  at  the  convent,  so  unmanageable  it  was 
and  curly  and  tangled — its  reproach  was  turned  into  its 
beauty,  for  its  disordered  luxuriance  was  encouraged 
and  even  increased  and  it  was  carried  to  the  top  of  her 
head  and  held  there  with  a  tall  comb ;  black  and  brilliant 
over  her  black,  brilliant  eyes ;  soft  and  entrancing  as  her 
soft  form.  As  soon  as  Madame  Doucelet  laid  her  small, 
faded  eyes  upon  the  youngest  Demoiselle  San  Antonio, 
this  transformation  and  other  transformations  sprang, 
as  it  were,  before  them. 

And  as  their  hair  and  their  figures,  so  their  com 
plexions,  hands,  and  finger  nails.  Madame  Doucelet  in 
sisted  upon  long,  polished,  finger  nails  as  authoritatively 
as  the  convent  did  on  fasting  and  prayer.  Long  finger 
nails,  she  said,  denoted  a  lady — that  is,  one  who  never 
worked  with  her  hands — for,  obviously,  one  could  not 
work  with  long  finger  nails.  Even  the  practising  on  the 
piano  had  to  be  sacrificed  to  them,  for  the  lady  with  long 
finger  nails  cannot  afford  to  break  them  on  the  piano 
keys. 

As  all  these  small  sums  of  their  capital  were  being 
rescued,  as  it  were,  from  their  uselessness,  to  be  turned  to 
profitable  account,  the  convent  dresses,  which  were  in- 


THE  SAN  ANTONIOS  221 

deed  only  dresses  for  a  soul,  not  a  body,  were  replaced 
by  the  apparel  that  fashion  in  truth  seems  to  adopt  for 
the  purpose  of  revenging  itself  upon  the  soul  for  its 
servile  treatment  of  the  body. 

Mademoiselle  Mimi  saw  skirts  grow  longer,  more 
flattering  to  the  figure,  waists  more  transparent,  more 
open  at  the  neck,  sleeves  more  charitable  to  the  eye  of 
a  lover  of  beautiful  arms,  heels  higher.  Earrings  made 
their  appearance,  beads,  chains.  And  as  all  this  was 
observed  by  Mademoiselle  Mimi,  three  times  a  week,  she 
observed,  too,  that  each  sang  better,  according  as  she 
progressed  upward  in  the  teaching  of  Madame  Doucelet. 
Sometimes,  when  as  it  seemed  to  her,  the  voice  she  was 
accompanying  was  making  a  triumphant,  exultant  escape 
from  the  body  and  all  ties  of  the  throat,  to  soar  untram- 
meled  through  the  greatest  difficulties  of  technique,  she 
would  look  up  and  find  the  eyes  of  the  singer  fastened 
on  some  mirror  (as  has  already  been  said  the  Havels  had 
multiplied  mirrors  in  their  pretty  salon),  where  was  the 
reflection  of  a  beautiful,  beautifully  dressed  young  lady. 

Ah !  what  were  the  poor  nuns,  with  their  feeble  imagi 
nation  of  the  angelic,  to  this  revelation?  What  more 
rapturous  gaze  could  the  eyes  of  their  pupils  turn  upon 
the  pictures  of  the  most  immaculate  saints? 

Madame  Doucelet,  always  in  the  corner,  telling  her 
prayer  beads,  would  dart  out  every  now  and  then,  with 
her  noiseless  tread,  like  a  spider  out  of  its  web,  to  put  a 
footstool  under  Antonia's  bronze  slippers,  to  show  off 
her  foot;  to  thrust  a  bright  cushion  under  Lisida's  lan 
guid  head  and  rumple  her  hair  still  a  little  more ;  to  lift 
Maria's  arm  to  the  back  of  her  chair  and  gently  lay  her 
shapely  head,  en  profile,  on  her  palm  in  the  pose  of  a 


222      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

listening  muse;  fastening  her  ideas  on  to  them,  just  as 
a  spider  fastens  the  ends  of  his  threads  to  a  leaf  or  twig, 
in  making  a  trap.  No  woman  could  give  more  of  herself 
to  the  work  for  which  she  was  paid. 

"  Where,  where?"  Mademoiselle  would  ask  herself, 
from  the  depths  of  her  ugliness  and  ignorance,  as  her 
short,  blunt  fingers  struck  chords  and  ran  trills;  "  where, 
in  the  name  of  piety,  did  she  learn  it  all  ?  " 

But  Mademoiselle  Mimi,  who  could  not  sing  for  want 
of  a  voice,  was  she  not  apparently  as  badly  equipped  for 
her  role  as  Madame  Doucelet  for  hers? 

The  husband  and  wife  would  sit  in  the  basement 
until  the  time  came  for  them  to  go  up  the  backstairs  to 
the  servant's  room  they  had  selected  for  their  chamber. 
Here  they  would  sit  with  shut  door,  forgetting  them 
selves,  and  perhaps  fancying  they  were  again  in  their  old 
chamber  over  the  barroom,  smelling  of  oysters,  whiskey, 
and  the  foul  emanations  from  the  gutters.  In  a  corner 
was  the  pine  bed  bought  when  the  wedding  ring,  the 
marriage  certificate  of  the  ignorant,  was  bought;  there 
stood  also  the  wooden  table  with  a  pail  and  basin;  a 
clothes  chest  and  two  short-legged  chairs,  as  in  the  old 
chamber.  The  one  addition  to  these  old  friends,  the 
bridal  accompaniments  of  the  bed,  was  a  safe  with  a 
combination  lock.  There  had  been  no  fireplace  in  their 
old  room,  nor  was  there  one  in  this  one.  They  would 
as  soon  have  thought  of  warming  their  cow  by  a  fire 
as  themselves.  When  other  folks  made  a  fire  in  Winter, 
they  tied  a  woolen  scarf  around  their  necks  and  over  their 
heads;  as  when  other  folks  drank  their  coffee  out  of 
china  or  delft  cups,  they  drank  theirs  out  of  tin,  stirring 
it  with  the  handle  of  their  iron  forks  or  knives. 


THE  SAN  ANTONIOS  223 

They  would  sit  in  their  room,  silent,  inert,  until  the 
nine  o'clock  bell  rang,  when,  together  with  a  lighted 
candle,  they  would  make  the  round  of  the  pretty  house 
that  lay  like  a  sleeping  beauty  under  the  spell  of  a  curse. 
Ah!  she  would  never  awake,  that  beauty,  nor  find  a 
deliverer  tc  bear  her  away  out  of  her  doom ! 

They  would  go  back  to  their  room  and  sit  there  again, 
silent  and  still  together — one  might  as  well  imagine  the 
two  magnolia  trees  in  the  garden  caressing  one  another, 
as  the  husband  the  wife,  or  the  wife  the  husband. 

When  the  gray  dawn  was  about  coming  on,  when  in 
old  times  the  last  drunkard  would  be  put  out  of  the  bar 
room  to  the  sidewalk,  and  they  would  be  free,  to  fasten 
and  bar  their  door  and  creep  slowly  on  their  tired  feet 
to  their  room,  to  sleep  off  their  day's  work — not  until 
then  did  their  old  methodical  habits  permit  them  to  go 
to  bed.  They  were  hardly  more  silent  and  inscrutable  in 
their  sleep  than  when  awake. 


A   BAD   PART   OF   THE   ROAD 

THEY  talked  along  pleasantly  enough  for  a  while — the 
uncle,  aunt,  and  nephew — with  the  gay  frankness  and 
easy  humorous  comment  of  family  conversation,  but 
there  can  be  no  long  stretch  of  pleasantness,  even  in 
family  intercourse,  when  there  were  such  ugly  obtruding 
questions  as  they  had  in  their  minds.  Questions  that 
were  in  possession  there,  like  sheriffs  in  possession  of  a 
seized  house:  how  to  get  along,  how  to  make  a  living, 
what  to  do  next  in  politics  to  ameliorate  the  situation; 
with  no  better  answers  to  them,  as  far  as  they  could  see, 
but  such  as  were  given  by  a  warring  congress,  a  power 
less  president,  and  a  hating,  taunting  press  closing  in 
pitilessly  around  them,  with  articles  that  were  as  the 
spikes  of  a  new  and  terrible  Iron  Virgin.  The  South 
was  at  bay,  and  the  conquered  Confederates  were  at 
bay  in  the  South. 

The  mother  found  herself,  suddenly  raising  her  head 
quickly  as  a  hen  does  when  the  fear  of  a  hawk  strikes 
her.  And  as  the  hen,  even  where  there  is  no  hawk  in 
sight,  yet  at  the  thought  of  one,  hurries  her  chicks  to  a 
shelter,  so  she  gathered  her  brood  together  and  led 
them  into  the  next  room,  and  seated  them  around  the 
dining-table,  turned  up  the  lamp  in  the  center  of  it  and 
carefully  took  her  own  place  on  the  side  next  the  door, 
so  that  in  maintaining  order  and  quiet  in  one  room,  she 
could  be  ready  to  make  a  diversion  in  the  next.  She  was 
always  afraid  for  Harry,  with  his  uncle, 

324 


A  BAD  PART  OF  THE  ROAD  225 

Her  intuitions,  however,  for  once  seemed  to  be  at 
fault.  The  smooth  tones  that  rolled  in  to  her  had  a 
kindly  tone  (that  is,  her  husband's  tone  was  kindly)  and 
every  now  and  then  there  came  the  tapping  of  the  pipe, 
.showing  that  it  was  empty  and  being  refilled:  always  a 
good  sign.  Any  guardian  angel  might  have  been  tempted 
to  wander  into  inattention.  But  she  was  aroused  from 
her  thoughts  by  the  ominous  words  from  Harry :  "  It  is 
no  use  for  me  to  keep  at  this  sort  of  a  thing,  I  will  hunt 
a  place  somewhere !  "  And  after  that  the  angry  murmur 
of  a  discussion,  and  the  closing  of  the  door. 

After  a  few  words  of  pleasant  chat  with  the  children, 
in  case  they  had  heard  anything,  she  arose  and  went  into 
the  little  parlor.     "  Why,   Harry ! "   she  exclaimed  in 
^urprise,  "  it  was  your  uncle  then  that  went  out?  " 
\    "  Yes,"  he  replied. 

"  I  thought  it  was  you,"  she  said  simply.  After  wait 
ing  a  moment  for  him  to  speak :  "  What  was  the  matter  ? 
Of  course,  you  did  not  expect  him  to  approve  your  giving 
up  your  profession?" 

"  I,"  he  answered  coming  out  of  his  silence  with  an 
effort.  "  I — Oh,  I  was  fool  enough  to  tell  Uncle  some 
unpleasant  truths,  that  was  all ! " 

"Why  did  you  do  that?"  she  asked  very  gently  to 
conceal  her  displeasure. 

He  had  twisted  himself  around  in  his  chair  so  as  to, 
rest  his  elbow  on  the  back  of  it  and  his  head  on  his  hand ; 
and  she  saw,  now  that  the  light  fell  on  the  scarred  side 
of  his  face,  that  it  was  no  longer  the  reckless,  good- 
humored,  dare-devil  boy's  face  she  remembered,  but  the 
face  of  a  man,  worn  and  discouraged,  older,  harder,  the 
scar  wrinkling  it  into  ugliness.  How  different  from  the 


226      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  O*  ST.  MEDARD 

boy  who  had  come  to  her  and  her  husband  fresh  from 
Princeton!  How  different  from  the  man  both  had  ex 
pected  from  the  promise  of  the  boy! 

"  Why  did  I  do  it?  Why  did  I  do  it?  I  will  tell  you 
why  I  did  it,"  he  raised  his  voice  angrily,  the  fire  of 
temper  shining  in  his  eyes.  "  I  did  it  because,  unless  he 
sees  things  as  they  are,  unless  some  one  did  tell  him  the 
truth,  unless,  unless  .  .  .  you  will  all  want  for  food," 
he  concluded  impatiently. 

She  arose.  "  I  think  your  uncle  perfectly  right  not  to 
listen  to  you." 

"  My  uncle  is  a  fool  not  to  listen  to  me." 

She  turned  to  put  her  hand  on  the  knob  of  the  door 
to  open  it.  He  jumped  from  his  seat  and  putting  his 
hand  on  hers  loosened  its  clasp. 

"Don't  go  off  that  way,  Aunt,"  he  begged.  "Just 
listen  to  me,  let  us  talk  it  all  over."  Then  striving  to  be 
pleading  and  affectionate :  "  At  any  rate,  you  ought  to 
know,"  he  continued  with  unmistakable  emphasis. 

When  she  sat  down  again,  he  brought  his  chair  closer 
to  her.  "  I  knew,  when  I  undertook  to  speak  to  Uncle 
about  his  affairs  he  would  not  listen  to  me.  But,  whether 
he  listens  to  me  or  not,  Aunt,  the  circumstances  will 
remain  the  same." 

"What  circumstances,  Harry?" 

He  looked  at  her  in  surprise.  "Why,  Aunt,  don't 
you  know  that  we  are  ruined,  that  we  have  lost  every 
thing?" 

"  Why,  of  course,  I  know  that,  Harry.  We  have  been 
whipped  in  the  war  and  lost  everything.  But,  what  of 
that?  We  certainly  expected  to  lose  everything  if  we 
lost  our  cause." 


A  BAD  PART  OF  THE  ROAD  227 

As  he  had  nothing  to  answer,  she  went  on :  "  We  have 
all  to  do  our  share  in  the  work  of  getting  along.  I  know 
that  I  am  willing  to  do  my  part.  I  made  up  my  mind  to 
that.  Of  course,  there  are  disappointments  " — her  voice 
faltered  a  little — "  the  children  will  suffer  .  .  .  but 
what  of  that?  The  experience  may  be  good  for 
them.  .  .  .  And  at  any  rate,  the  circumstances,  as  you 
call  them,  cannot  last  forever.  Your  uncle  thinks-  we 
have  gotten  through  the  worst  already,  he  sees  signs  of 
better  times  ...  of  renewed  prosperity  ..."  then — 
her  calmness  suddenly  breaking — "  he  made  a  fortune 
out  of  his  profession  once,  and  how  dare  you  .  .  . 
how  dare  you  ..."  At  this  moment,  the  door  opened 
and  her  husband  entered.  Standing  by  the  mantel  and 
leaning  his  arm  upon  it,  all  traces  of  his  previous  irrita 
tion  obliterated  from  his  face  and  manner,  he  asked : 

"  You  are  confident  that  your  information  is  correct, 
and  that  the  council  have  engaged  Stone  to  reopen  the 
Riparian  case? 

:<  Yes,"  his  nephew  answered,  coolly  and  formally, 
"my  information  is  perfectly  correct;  Stone  is  the 
brother  of  the  commanding  General;  there  is  another 
brother  in  a  wholesale  house  here  furnishing  army  and 
navy  supplies." 

"  And,"  his  fingers  tapping  the  mantel  softly,  "  you 
say  he  is  going  to  associate  other  counsel  with  him." 

"Yes,  Dalton;  that  is  decided  on." 

"  Thank  you,  that  is  all  I  wanted  to  know.  Have  you 
found  out  any  news  about  the  banks  ?  " 

Harry  paused  before  he  answered  and  then  proceeded 
with  a  sympathetic  inflection  in  his  voice,  that  he  tried 
to  stiffen  out  of  it :  "I  made  it  my  business  to  find  out  if 


228      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

there  was  any  change  to  be  made  in  any  of  your  old 
banks." 

The  fingers  on  the  mantel  stopped  their  tapping,  and 
this  little  noise  withdrawn,  a  breathless  stillness  seemed 
to  fall  over  the  room. 

"  It  is  a  '  pull  dick,  pull  devil '  business  in  all  the  banks 
between  directors  and  presidents  as  to  which  man's  rela 
tive  should  get  the  places.  But  the  Union  men,  who  are 
in  possession,  are  to  be  retained,  I  hear,  for  the  present, 
on  account  of  their  influence  with  the  courts.  As  for 
the  Delta,  that  has  been  given  positively  to  Fosdick." 

"ToFosdick?    Why?" 

"  His  father-in-law  was  a  Union  man,  and  he  pushed 
Fosdick,  who  has  been  pardoned  by  the  government, 
and  .  .  ." 

His  uncle  left  the  room  and  was  heard  pacing  up  and 
down  the  gallery  outside  with  firm,  measured  steps  that 
fell  as  steadily  as  the  ticking  of  a  clock. 

The  Riparian  case !  the  great  feature  of  all  their  plans ! 
the  high  tower  of  their  future!  That  upon  which  they 
were  to  depend,  even  if  everything  else  failed !  The  wife 
looked  up  as  if  to  certify  where  she  was.  The  Riparian 
case,  given  to  another  lawyer !  .  .  .  And  the  Delta,  her 
father's  old  bank !  What  right  had  Fosdick  to  that  ? 

She  listened  until  the  steps  reached  the  farthest  end  of 
the  gallery: 

"  And  Mr.  Haight's  bank,  Harry?    The  Caledonian?  " 

"  The  Caledonian  ?  Oh,  that  was  given  to  a  friend  of 
Haight's  from  the  West." 

"  What !  Did  George  Haight  give  to  another  a  posi 
tion  that  my  husband  could  have  accepted  ?  He  couldn't 
have  known." 


A  BAD  PART  OF  THE  ROAD  229 

"Ah!  but  he  did  know." 

"  I  cannot  believe  it." 

"  I  told  him  myself." 

"  You  told  him  ?  You  asked  George  Haight  for  a 
position  for  my  husband  ?  " 

She  looked  at  him  as  if  he  were  demented. 

"  I  not  only  asked  him  for  it,  I  plead  with  him  to 
give  it  to  the  husband  of  his  old  friend,  to  the  husband 
of  the  daughter  of  his  old  benefactor,  the  man  who 
helped  him  when  he  needed  help,  who  .  .  .  " 

"  Helped  him !  Helped  him !  "  she  broke  in  with  indig 
nant  impetuousity.  "  Made  him !  made  him !  A  stranger ! 
A  friendless  lad !  Gave  him  money  to  buy  decent  clothes 
with  .  .  .  found  a  place  for  him  .  .  .  why,  he  would 
have  died  of  yellow  fever  but  for  my  father!  He  took 
him  in  his  own  house,  found  a  nurse  for  him  .  .  .  and 
he  ...  and  he  ..  ." 

She  could  not  find  words  to  express  what  she  felt. 
"  My  husband,"  she  asserted,  foolishly,  weakly,  it  must 
have  appeared  to  the  nephew,  "  is  as  much  above  George 
Haight  as  heaven  is  above  the  earth." 

"  Oh,  no,  Aunt.  You  are  mistaken  there !  Haight  is 
as  much  above  your  husband  now,  as  gold  is  above 
heaven.  And  he  knows  it  and  he  wants  you  to  know  it 
[showing  that  her  foolish  assertion  had  not  been  lost 
upon  him].  He  has  the  money  that  we  are  all  upon 
our  knees  begging  to  be  allowed  to  work  for  .  .  . " 

Her  lips  curled  with  scorn,  she  shook  her  head,  her 
fingers  twitched;  she  was,  evidently,  in  her  mind  speak 
ing  to  Haight.  When  she  was  angry,  she  showed  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  a  high-tempered  father  and 
could  talk  as  he  did  when  occasion  required. 


230     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

"  Harry,"  she  turned  in  a  constrained  way  to  him, 
"  what  are  you  going  to  do  when  you  give  up  the 
bar?" 

"  As  I  told  Uncle,  I  shall  try  and  get  a  clerkship  some 
where;  sell  pots  and  pans,  groceries,  anything  to  make 
a  living.  There  is  nothing  for  me  to  do  at  the  bar.  I 
should  die  of  starvation  before  I  could  get  a  practice 
now."  He  laughed  scornfully.  "  There  are  no  political 
qualifications  required  to  sell  pots  and  pans.  And  the 
city  is  full  of  that  kind  of  business.  Capital  is  the  only 
necessary  qualification  for  it,  and  the  land  of  inex 
haustible  armies  is  the  land  of  inexhaustible  capital.  .  .  . 
We  went  under  to  the  one — now,  we  must  go  under  to 
the  other." 

"  It  will  break  your  mother's  heart,"  she  said  sadly. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

She  continued,  bitterly:  "  Tommy  Cook,  a  little  raga 
muffin  picked  up  from  the  street  to  be  a  lawyer!  and 
you !  with  your  family  and  education  ..." 

Harry  held  up  his  hand  warningly,  "  Listen,  Aunt," 
he  spoke  slowly  and  distinctly :  "  when  I  was  brought 
to  the  city,  Tommy  hunted  me  up,  searched  for  me  in 
the  hospital  until  he  found  me  and  did  not  leave  me. 
He  bribed  the  doctor  to  look  after  me,  specially,  and 
paid  the  nurses  right  and  left  to  get  some  sort  of  decent 
treatment  for  me;  and  at  the  worst  part  of  it,  he  brought 
in  the  best  doctor  in  the  city,  from  the  outside,  to  see  me, 
and  I  should  have  died  if  he  hadn't.  .  .  .  And  when  I 
was  strong  enough  to  leave  the  hospital  and  go  to 
prison,  he  stuck  by  me  there;  and  if  I  had  ever  gotten 
strong  enough  to  escape,  he  would  have  helped  me  out 
of  the  city.  ..." 


A  BAD  PART  OF  THE  ROAD  231 

"  And  he  is  helping  you  now ! "  she  looked  at  him 
with  sudden  inspiration ;  "  he  is  helping  you  now !  " 

"  Yes,"  speaking  still  slower,  and  more  impressively : 
"  he  is  helping  me  now,  I  am  living  with  him,  I  am  living 
upon  him." 

"  Oh,  Harry !  Come  and  live  with  us !  Come  and 
stay  with  us,"  she  cried  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 

He  paid  no  attention  to  this.  "  He  is  a  very  much 
better  lawyer  than  ever  I  would  have  been  with  all  my 
education  and  family.  ...  As  he  will  prove  it  one  of 
these  days."  He  sighed  heavily  and  then  continued  in 
a  desultory  way :  "  Try  to  understand  things  a  little  .  .  . 
it  is  your  duty  to  do  so  .  .  .  You  talk  about  doing 
your  part  in  the  poverty  ahead  ...  let  your  part  begin 
right  now  and  here."  He  showed  that  he  was  listening 
to  the  regular  steps  on  the  gallery,  and  every  time  they 
passed,  the  door  seemed  to  expect  them  to  stop,  but 
they  continued;  going  backwards  and  forwards  from 
one  end  of  the  gallery  to  the  other. 

"  And  Tommy,  you  know,  saved  Uncle's  library. 
When  the  city  was  captured,  he  saw  that  he  must  save 
the  office  and  library.  If  he  had  not  been  lame,  he 
would  have  gone  into  the  army,  he  would  have  fought 
with  us  and  been  whipped  with  us.  But,  he  had  not 
taken  an  oath  to  the  Confederacy  and  so  he  was  immune 
politically,  so  to  speak  "...  The  steps  were  passing  the 
door  again,  they  did  not  stop  ..."  most  of  the  lawyers 
did  not  find  a  book  left  when  they  came  back.  Why, 
every  ship  that  went  North  for  a  year  after  the  capture 
of  the  city  took  a  load  of  books  as  a  regular  part  of  their 
cargo.  Whole  libraries  were  shipped.  There  were  even 
preachers  in  the  army  to  steal  the  libraries  of  preachers 


232     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

.  .  .  but  that  was  not  all ;  Uncle  had  accumulated  data 
of  all  kinds,  pamphlets,  briefs,  invaluable  to  another 
lawyer;  not  to  speak  of  a  private  journal  filled  with 
commentary  on  the  decisions  of  the  Supreme  Court  in 
all  important  cases,  a  thing  that  no  one  else  on  earth 
would  have  had  the  patience  to  do.  Alone  it  would 
furnish  good  capital  for  any  lawyer  to  start  with.  What 
he  wrote  about  the  Riparian  case,  if  Stone  could  get  it 
would  give  him  more  knowledge  than  he  could  acquire 
in  ten  years'  study  of  it." 

She  nodded  to  the  look  he  gave  her. 

"  And  Tommy  held  on  to  the  business  too.  He  could 
not  help  being  a  lawyer ;  always  around  the  courts,  listen 
ing  to  every  case  Uncle  argued,  hunting  up  his  authorities 
from  the  time  he  could  read;  copying,  from  the  time  he 
could  write.  Uncle  himself  used  to  send  him  to  listen  to 
the  reading  of  the  decisions  of  the  Supreme  Court ;  and  he 
said  that  Tommy's  report  was  as  good  as  the  official  one 
and  sometimes  better.  So  he  could  easily  pass  an  ex 
amination.  He  confidently  expected  to  hand  over  the 
business  with  the  library  to  Uncle  after  the  war.  He 
did  not  foresee.  .  .  .  You  do  not  seem  to  realize,  Aunt, 
that  Uncle  is  practically  disbarred  from  the  higher  courts ; 
that  if  he  had  all  the  cases  in  the  world,  he  could  not 
bring  them  in  a  United  States  court,  unless  he  sent  on 
to  Washington  for  a  pardon,  which  he  won't  do;  and 
took  an  oath  which  he  cannot  take.  Our  own  courts  are 
in  the  hands  of  scalawags,  scalawags  for  judges,  scala 
wags  for  lawyers.  ..." 

"  Yes,  I  know  all  that,"  she  answered  hastily,  for  her 
quick  ears  heard  the  steps  on  the  gallery  turning  in 
toward  the  door. 


A  BAD  PART  OF  THE  ROAD      233 

It  opened,  and  her  husband  entered,  and  as  before 
took  a  position  by  the  mantel. 

"  Harry,"  the  name  was  pronounced  absent-mindedly, 
"  where  did  you  get  your  information  about  the  Riparian 
case?" 

His  nephew  grew  as  embarrassed  as  if  he  were  making 
a  confession  of  guilt ;  as  if  he  were  still  a  boy  before  his 
stern  uncle. 

"  I  saw  it  in  a  letter,  Sir." 

"A  letter  to  whom?" 

"  To  Tommy." 

"Who  wrote  that  letter?" 

"  Colonel  Dalton." 

"Who?" 

"  Colonel  Dalton ;  he  wanted  Tommy  to  refresh  his 
mind  about  some  of  the  points  of  the  case.  He  offered 
to  engage  him  as  associate  in  the  case."  His  uncle's  arm 
fell  from  the  mantel,  and  his  face  grew  white.  Without 
a  word  he  left  the  room,  but  instead  of  walking  on  the 
gallery,  those  inside  heard  him  go  down  the  steps  and 
out  of  the  gate. 

His  aunt  raised  her  eyes  to  Harry :  "  Dalton ! "  she 
exclaimed. 

The  young  fellow  jumped  from  his  chair  as  if  to  fol 
low  his  uncle,  but  hesitated,  and  sat  again  by  his  aunt: 
"If  it  had  not  been  Dalton,  it  would  have  been  some  one 
else,"  he  said  heavily,  "  It  is  a  fight  now,  Aunt,  not  for 
rights,  but  for  life." 

'  Yes,  but  Dalton !  Any  one  rather  than  he !  I  would 
not  have  believed  it  of  him  .  .  .  Why,"  she  said,  the 
tears  coming  into  her  eyes,  and  her  voice  trembling, 
"  we  were  talking  about  him  the  other  day,  and  your 


234     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

uncle  said  he  could  count  upon  Dalton  as  upon  himself ; 
that  he  trusted  him  more  than  any  friend  he  had.  I 
was  asking  him/'  she  explained  weakly,  "  something 
about  his  business  and  he  was  telling  me  what  he  was 
relying  upon,  when  the  political  troubles  were  past.  I  do 
not  mind  being  disappointed  myself,  .  .  .  but  to  see  him 
disappointed,  deceived.  ..." 

"  Uncle  always  trusted  those  whom  he  helped  along," 
interrupted  the  young  fellow  curtly. 

'  Your  uncle  met  him  only  yesterday,  and  Dalton  told 
him  all  sorts  of  pleasant  and  affectionate  things." 

"  I  met  him  today.  He  did  not  know  that  I  knew 
about  the  letter  to  Tommy  Cook  and  he  was  full  of  his 
admiration  of  Uncle  and  his  devotion  to  him.  Aunt, 
Aunt,  if  you  want  to  serve  Uncle,  advise,  persuade  him, 
.  .  .  Dalton  would  take  him  in  as  associate  counsel." 

She  shook  her  head  without  waiting  to  hear  what  he 
wished  her  to  advise  and  persuade. 

"  But,  Aunt,  you  don't  know  what  hard  times  may  be 
ahead  of  you." 

"  That  would  make  no  difference  with  your  uncle  if 
he  thought  a  principle  was  involved.  He  will  never 
ask  for  a  pardon,  or  for  help  from  Dalton," — her  lip 
curled. 

"  Think  of  the  children,  Aunt,  the  difference  it  may 
make  in  their  lives." 

"  That  is  what  I  am  thinking  of  Harry ;  that  is  what 
we  both  are  thinking  of  all  the  time :  the  children.  We 
do  not  wish  our  children  ever  to  be  ashamed  of,  ever 
have  to  apologize  for  their  father." 

"  Ashamed !  apologize !  "  he  repeated. 

"  Ah,  Aunt ! "  he  said    bitterly,  "  an  American  child 


A  BAD  PART  OF  THE  ROAD  235 

is  never  ashamed  of  a  father  that  makes  money  for  it, 
you  know  that,  even  if  he  stole  the  money. " 

"  If  I  were  a  child  of  Colonel  Dalton's,  I  know  I 
would  be  ashamed  of  what  he  is  doing  now,"  she  re 
torted  angrily. 

"  Aunt,  mark  my  words,  this  transaction  will  be  the 
making  of  his  fortune.  Dalton  is  a  fine  lawyer  if  " — he 
hesitated  as  lawyers  do  in  saying  such  a  thing  about  a 
confrere — "  he  is  not  a  scrupulous  one." 

"  No,  after  this  I  should  say  not,  although  your  uncle 
trusted  him  implicitly." 

"  The  Dalton  children,"  he  continued,  "  will  be  reared, 
educated,  and  provided  for  like  a  gentleman's  children. 
Yours  ..." 

"  We  shall  educate  our  children  like  a  gentleman's 
children,  Harry !  Do  not  be  afraid  for  that."  She  raised 
her  head  proudly. 

Taps  sounded  from  the  barracks,  clear  and  sweet  in 
the  night  air,  and  the  street,  in  front,  was  filled  at  once 
with  the  noise  of  the  feet  of  running  soldiers.  And 
as  if  this  were  the  cue  for  their  entrance,  the  children 
straggled  through  the  room  on  their  way  to  bed ;  yawn 
ing,  sleepy,  hair  rumpled,  feet  dragging.  Their  mother 
kissed  each  one  good  night  and  watched  them  go;  the 
boys  through  the  door  on  one  side,  the  girls  through  the 
door  on  the  other.  Their  cousin  watched  them  also 
with  a  strained  expression. 

11  They,"  he  said,  "  are  the  real  victims  of  the  war,  they 
are  the  real  losers." 

"  Oh,  let  us  forget  our  losses,  our  misfortunes ! "  she 
exclaimed  desperately.  "  Let  us  go  on  from  where  we 
are  as  best  we  can.  We  can  at  least  be  cheerful.  I  am 


236     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

not  going  to  think  about  it  any  more  than  I  can  help, 
and  rich  or  poor,  we  can  enjoy  our  children  and  one 
another.  As  for  the  future,  the  future,"  her  voice  died 
away.  What  could  she  say  about  the  future?  Always 
changing,  still  changing!  her  future  of  a  few  hours  ago 
was  gone  now  from  her  as  much  as  her  future  before 
the  Confederate  war. 

When  Harry  spoke  again,  it  was  from  a  different 
direction,  and  with  a  gentler  voice. 

:{  You  see,  Aunt,  it  is  not  as  if  I  came  straight  from 
the  Confederacy  as  you  and  Uncle  did,  where  you  could 
not  help  being  keyed  up  all  the  time  to  the  heroic.  I 
was  here  for  a  year  before  the  end  of  the  war,  lying  for 
the  most  part  of  the  time  on  my  back,  for  even  in  prison, 
you  know,  I  was  a  cripple  and  half  blind.  When  the 
worst  of  my  pain  was  over,  I  could  not  sleep,  that  was 
my  great  trouble.  I  used  to  long  at  night  for  the  pain 
to  come  again,  for  that  did  exhaust  me  so  that  it  made 
me  sleep.  Tommy  used  to  bring  me  the  papers;  of 
course,  he  could  only  bring  me  the  papers  on  one  side, 
and  I  can  tell  you,  they  gave  me  enough  to  think  about 
at  night  when  I  could  not  sleep :  papers  from  the  North, 
the  East,  the  West;  from  Europe."  He  laid  his  head 
in  both  his  hands.  "  It  is  a  wonder  I  didn't  go  crazy.  The 
doctor  used  to  snarl  at  me :  'If  you  go  on  this  way — 
thinking — you  will  go  crazy/  and  I  would  snarl  back 
at  him :  '  Damn  you,  I  will  think  and  I  won't  go  crazy.' 
So  I  used  to  go  over  and  over  it  all  in  my  mind;  and 
Tommy  would  come  with  more  news,  more  papers,  more 
for  me  to  think  about,  to  go  crazy  over.  Aunt,  I  can 
see  as  plainly  as  I  see  you  sitting  there,  that  we  are  not 
at  the  end  but  at  the  beginning  of  a  war." 


A  BAD  PART  OF  THE  ROAD  237 

"  Harry !    Another  war !     Oh,  I  pray  God  not." 

"  Not  another  war,  Aunt ;  the  same  one.  We  have 
gone  through  one  phase  of  it,  that  is  all.  We  have  been 
whipped  into  laying  down  our  arms,  that  is  all.  They 
have  not  laid  theirs  down,  nor  are  they  going  to  do  so. 
The  victorious  side  will  never  lay  down  its  arms,  Aunt, 
never,  never! " 

"  Your  Uncle  does  not  think  so,  Harry.  Your  Uncle, 
argues  differently,  he  maintains  the  very  opposite.  He 
hopes  for  a  good  future  for  us  all  still,  a  prosperous 
future.  He  says  defeat  never  yet  destroyed  a  good 
people — I  mean  the  good  in  a  people  " — conscientiously 
correcting  her  report  of  the  original  words. 

"  He  does  not  know,  Aunt,  he  does  not  know." 

'  You  are  dispirited  and  discouraged,  Harry,  and  I 
do  not  wonder.  You  have  not  yet  recovered  from  your 
wounds  and  your  hard  time  in  prison.  You  must  come 
and  live  with  us  and  let  me  nurse  you  up  again."  She 
smiled  affectionately  at  him. 

He  seemed  not  to  hear  her,  for  he  only  shook  his 
head  and  repeated: 

"  Uncle  does  not  know,  he  does  not  know  the  people 
against  us." 

"  But,  Harry,"  falling  in  with  his  humor,  "  you  used 
to  be  devoted  to  the  North.  Don't  you  remember 
how  you  used  to  be  always  telling  us  how  superior 
they  were  up  there  to  the  South,  oh,  in  ever  so  many 
ways  ?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Princeton  then !  Yes,  I  was  de 
voted  to  Princeton.  But  I  can  never  think  of  the  people 
who  were  over  me  in  the  hospital  or  in  prison  in  the  same 
day  as  Princeton." 


238      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

"  Your  uncle  is  very  confident  of  the  wisdom  of  his 
judgment,  and  you  know  he  is  not  a  man  to  be  easily 
mistaken." 

"  What  did  his  judgment  about  Dalton  amount  to?" 

"  Oh,  he  was  simply  deceived  about  Dalton." 

'  That  is  it,"  with  rising  temper,  "  he  was  deceived, 
and  you  are  all  deceived;  deceiving  yourselves.  You 
don't  know  the  truth,  no  one  among  you  knows  the  truth. 
You  are  like  those  idiots  in  the  country  strutting  around 
in  heroic  attitudes,  your  heads  in  the  clouds." 

"Your  uncle  ..." 

"  We  are  a  ruined  people,"  he  interrupted,  "  it's  no 
use  thinking  we  can  come  back  from  the  war  and  take 
up  where  we  left  off  and  go  right  on.  We  can't  do  it. 
We  have  lost  our  men,  we  have  lost  our  money,  we 
have  lost  our  place  in  business.  Where  one  of  us  stood 
before  there  stands  now  a  keen,  shrewd,  pushing  stranger, 
who  does  not  care  a  damn  for  the  heroic  or  for  anything 
but  money-making;  and  we  must  down  that  man  before 
we  can  make  a  step  in  advance.  This  is  no  Southern  talk, 
no  nonsensical  sectional  prejudice,  it  is  plain  common 
sense.  We  are  in  poverty,  not  as  transients,  as  Uncle 
thinks,  but  as  permanents.  We  are  in  poverty  to  stay 
while  our  masters  grow  rich  over  us  and  rule  the  land. 
Make  no  mistake  about  that,  they  are  going  to  rule. 
We  have  no  rights  as  freemen  now ;  but  we  will  gain 
our  political  rights,  yes,  we  will  gain  them.  We  can 
show  at  least  that  we  are  not  going  to  live  under  negro 
rule ;  but  to  the  end  of  our  days  we  will  be  outnumbered, 
outcounted  in  the  nation." 

"Your  uncle  ..." 

"  Never  will  we  get  out  of  the  sound  of  that  trumpet 


A  BAD  PART  OF  THE  ROAD  239 

over  there;  out  of  the   sound  of  what  that  trumpet 
means,"  he  declared. 

"  Your  uncle  understands  the  temper  of  the  country/' 
his  aunt  continued  firmly. 

"  He  knows  what  the  men  of  his  class  think  at 
the  North,  the  men  with  his  standards  and  ideals. 
I  know  what  the  other  class  think  and  there 
are  nine  hundred  and  ninety-nine  of  them  to  one  of  his 
class. 

"  He  and  his  class  have  rather  proved  themselves  in 
the  past,  I  think,"  she  answered  proudly. 

"  Oh,  yes,  in  that  easy  little  game  that  they  used  to 
call  life;  when  this  was  not  considered  the  act  of  a 
gentleman,  nor  that,  when  they  acted  and  talked  to  one 
another  like  dancing-masters.  That  is  the  way  they  tried 
to  carry  on  the  war.  Look  at  Sherman  and  who  blames 
him?" 

"  Well,  not  his  own  side,"  she  acknowledged. 

"  Remember  always  that  Lee  was  whipped  by  .    .    ." 

"  Enough,  Harry,  enough.  I  can  hear  no  more  to 
night.  You  are  not  well,  you  ..." 

Still  he  went  on :  "  Oh !  I  know  that  we  could  fight 
for  a  time  for  our  sentiments,  and  we  will  pose  and  write 
poetry  about  them  to  all  eternity;  but  that  trumpet  will 
outstand  anything  we  can  do  or  say.  And  that  trumpet 
is  always  going  to  be  in  the  service  of  the  man  with  the 
dollar.  The  man  with  the  dollar  is  going  to  be  the  man 
in  the  country  henceforth,  his  policy  will  be  the  national 
policy.  It  won't  pay  to  have  any  other.  We  shall  find 
in  the  South  that  it  won't  pay  us  to  stick  to  the  South; 
it  won't  pay  us  to  stick  to  our  party;  it  won't  pay  our 
children  to  stick  to  us — but  it  will  pay  them  to  flock  to 


240     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

the  winning  side,  to  be  setting  Lincoln  above  Washing 
ton,  Grant  above  Lee/' 

"  Harry,  Harry,"  she  sighed  in  protest. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  proceeded  stubbornly.  "  Have  no 
doubt  about  it.  Money  is  to  be  the  power  in  the  United 
States  from  now  on,  and  the  power  of  the  Almighty 
Himself  will  not  be  able  to  prevail  against  it." 

'  You  think  so  now,  Harry,  you  think  so,  only  now." 

"  I  know  so,"  he  insisted.  The  day  will  come  in  this 
country  when  it  will  pay  a  man  who  loves  his  family  to 
steal  money  and  serve  out  his  time  in  the  penitentiary  for 
it,  if  he  has  the  sense  to  secure  what  he  stole  for  his 
children.  Good  name  and  principles !  Bah !  In  a  com 
munity  such  as  this  is  going  to  be,"  he  went  on  to  his 
helpless  listener,  "  the  daughters  of  a  convict  with  money 
would  be  far  better  off  than  the  daughters  of  a  poor 
man  with  all  the  principles  and  honor  in  the  world." 

"  I  do  not  believe  it,  I  do  not  believe  it." 

"  You  will  have  to  acknowledge  it  some  day." 

"  You  do  not  understand  ..." 

"  I  do  understand,"  he  interrupted  her  sharply. 
"  There  is  nothing  the  matter  with  my  mind  that  I  can 
not  understand.  And  your  children  will  understand  it 
too  in  my  way  when  they  grow  up.  They  will  know  by 
that  time  what  it  is  to  be  poor.  We  can  afford  to  look 
down  on  money  when  we  are  rich,  and  consider  principles 
and  honor  and  good  name  to  leave  to  our  children." 

"  Society  will  have  something  to  say,"  she  began  with 
the  spirit  of  a  society  woman. 

"  Society,  society,"  he  answered  violently.  "  Society 
will  get  on  its  knees  to  the  daughter  of  a  rascal  who  has 
money  and  turn  its  back  on  the  daughter  of  a  poor  man 


A  BAD  PART  OF  THE  ROAD  241 

who  has  only  high  principles.  Society  will  flock  around 
the  rich  rascal's  daughter,  asking  her  in  marriage;  the 
other  will  die  an  old  maid  unless  she  herself  makes  a 
compromise  with  principle." 

"  Well,"  obstinately,  "  religion  is  always  there  for 
women." 

"  Religion !  "  sneering  more  bitterly  than  ever.  "  Re 
ligion  means  church,  and  the  church  represents  nothing 
more  nor  less  than  the  men  in  the  church.  And  when 
the  church  needs  money,  the  church  is  going  to  do  what 
the  men  who  make  money  do  when  they  need  it;  it  is 
going  to  be  mighty  polite  to  the  men  who  have  money  to 
give  and  will  have  mighty  little  use  for  the  other  kind 
of  men." 

And  so  he  went  on,  in  his  desperate  state  of  dis 
couragement,  pouring  out  now  one,  now  another  of  the 
black  thoughts  that  had  come  to  him  in  the  hospital  and 
prison,  "  Honor !  pride !  sentiment !  You  will  live  to 
see  the  day  when  the  daughters  of  our  heroes  of  the  war 
are  working  like  menials  for  their  living,  when  your  own 
daughters  will  be  glad  to  seek  employment  at  the  hands 
of  the  scalawags  and  carpet-baggers  of  today.  My  uncle 
and  the  men  like  him  will  never  regain  their  lost  position 
in  the  country.  While  he  is  standing  on  his  dignity  and 
maintaining  his  ideals,  his  means  of  living  will  be  taken 
by  a  shrewder  man,  one  who  doesn't  know  what  dignity 
or  ideals  means;  one  of  the  class  who  even  now  are  hir 
ing  negro  legislators  to  steal  the  resources  of  the  State  for 
them,  handing  over  grants  and  monopolies  to  insure  their 
fortune  for  fifty  years  to  come,  to  gild  their  way  into 
your  society;  and  into  your  church!  You  don't  know 
what  is  going  on !  My  uncle  doesn't  know !  Great  God ! 


242      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

Have  you  any  idea  what  sort  of  people  our  masters  are  ? 
Let  me  tell  you !  Let  me  tell  you !  "  Jumping  from  his 
seat  and  standing  over  her  he  poured  out  in  a  torrent 
of  burning  words  what  he  had  seen  and  heard,  what  he 
had  suffered  himself  and  what  others  about  him  had 
suffered ;  the  cruelties,  the  horrors  that  peace  for  genera 
tions  afterward  would  be  trying  to  bury  deep  enough 
to  kill  the  noxious  pestilence  of  it;  the  stories  and  ex 
periences  that  it  is  hard  for  the  heart  to  restrain  and 
keep  out  of  sight,  yet  which  must  be  kept  out  of  sight  if 
women  are  to  live  at  all,  and  not  die  under  the  reverberat 
ing  memory  of  it. 

"  Harry,  Harry,"  his  aunt  whispered,  trembling 
herself  with  excitement  while  trying  to  be  calm : 
"  Hush,  hush !  Not  so  loud !  The  children  might  hear, 
we  do  not  want  them  to  know,  we  must  protect  their 
memories." 

He  sank  his  voice  to  a  whisper,  but  flinging  aside  all 
effort  at  self -composure,  fiercely,  pitilessly  gave  full  rein 
to  his  passion. 

"  They  are  the  people  who  send  ladies  off  prisoners  to 
sandy  islands  in  the  Gulf,  with  only  men — with  negroes 
over  them;  they  are  the  people  who  make  proclamation 
ordering  their  soldiers  to  insult  ladies  if  they  choose 
to;  as" — he  could  not  say  the  word — "who  put  negro 
soldiers  to  guard  white  gentlemen,  and  ...  let  them 
curse  their  prisoners,  they  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  now 
as  in  a  panic  her  passion  joined  his.  "  When  they  came 
to  the  plantation;  when  they  flung  our  last  bit  of  food 
in  the  Bayou;  when  they  told  me  they  had  caught  my 
husband  and  had  him  in  their  boat  and  were  going  to 


A  BAD  PART  OF  THE  ROAD  243 

hang  him  before  my  eyes  " — her  words  coming  quicker 
and  quicker,  and  her  breath  in  gasps — "  when  they  took 
my  poor  little  boy  and  stood  him  before  a  file  of  soldiers 
and  told  me  they  were  going  to  shoot  him  .  .  .  when 
they  went  through  the  house,  cursing,  swearing,  search 
ing,  searching  for  God  knows  what  .  .  .  when  they 
dragged  the  bed  clothes  off  Cicely,  who  was  shivering 
with  a  chill — with  a  doctor  standing  by,  and  a  preacher, 
who  offered  me  a  Testament — when  .  .  ." 

"  When  I  lay  in  the  hospital  .  .  /'he  could  not  give 
her  time  to  finish;  "with  hundreds  all  around  me, 
wounded,  gangrened,  dying,  the  women  would  come  to 
bring  to  us  any  comfort  they  could  think  of  ...  and 
they  would  lie,  would  perjure  themselves,  they  would 
take  devilish  oaths,  enough  to  secure  their  everlasting 
damnation,  if  it  were  counted  against  them.  And  negro 
soldiers  searched  them,  do  you  understand  ? "  She 
shrank  back  from  the  comprehension  he  forced  upon  her. 
"  Niggers  searched  their  persons ! "  He  clinched  his 
hands.  "  And  they,  the  women,  stood  it  f  or  us !  .  .  . 
God!  .  .  .  Sometimes  I  would  think  I  was  delirious, 
that  I  did  not  see  it,  that  it  could  not  be  ...  but  no! 
Look ! "  his  voice  trembled  as  he  pulled  up  his  sleeve  and 
showed  his  pulse  beating  furiously  in  his  broad  white 
wrist.  "  No,  it  was  not  delirium !  It  was  no  delirium 
that  made  men  turn  their  heads  in  their  beds  and  hide 
their  faces  and  sob  like  children,  because  they  had  to 
see  the  things  they  did  see  and  hear  what  they  heard 
and  could  not  kill  and  be  killed."  He  was  talking  wildly 
and  knew  it,  nevertheless  he  went  on — his  aunt  leaning 
back  in  her  chair,  pale  and  panting ;  her  eyes  fixed  on  his 
face,  could  not  but  listen — "  Oh,  I  know  them !  and  the 


244     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

President,  Mr.  Davis,  knows  them!  yes,  he  knows 
them.  ..." 

At  last!  At  last!  returning  steps  were  heard;  in  the 
walk,  coming  up  the  steps,  crossing  the  gallery. 

She  lifted  her  finger :  "  Hush,  your  uncle !  " 

A  draught  of  cold  air  blew  through  the  opened  door; 
a  blessed  draught  of  peace  and  calm,  wafted  from  the 
serenity  gained  in  the  long  walk  on  the  Levee;  by  the 
great,  swift-flowing  river;  under  the  stars.  The  evil 
demons  that  had  been  holding  their  sway  in  the  close,  hot 
room  slunk  back,  and  vanished,  like  the  devils  of  a  night 
mare.  The  wife  fled  as  it  were  to  her  husband,  grasping 
his  arm  and  laying  her  head  upon  it;  the  sleeve  so  cool 
and  redolent  of  the  atmosphere  of  night! 

The  nephew  passed  his  hand  wearily  over  his  brow; 
no  strength,  no  hope,  no  courage,  no  youth  left  in  his 
face.  Never  could  he  have  looked  more  injured  by 
battle. 

"  You  had  better  go  now,  Harry,"  said  his  uncle  in  his 
usual  clear,  decided  tone.  "  Tomorrow  we  shall  see  what 
we  can  do.  It  is  too  late  tonight  to  talk  any  more 
about  it." 

Without  a  word,  the  young  man  rose  and  took  his 
leave.  His  aunt  followed  him  impulsively,  and  bade 
him  good-night  on  the  gallery. 

"  It  is  Dalton's  treachery  that  has  upset  him,"  she  told 
her  husband  with  the  simple  conviction  of  a  woman's 
intuition.  "  Harry  thinks  it  is  the  war  " — she  shook  her 
head.  "  War  has  not  that  effect  on  a  soldier.  Nothing 
in  the  war  could  hurt  him  so  much.  He  is  too  brave  to 
mind  what  an  enemy  does;  but  a  friend,  a  friend  ..." 
Her  voice  died  away.  She  could  have  said  for  herself, 


A  BAD  PART  OF  THE  ROAD  245 

also,  that  nothing  in  the  war,  despite  the  memories  that 
had  roused  her  passion  a  few  moments  before,  nothing 
in  the  war  had  hurt  her  so  much. 

"  He  is  demoralized." 

"  Demoralized,  demoralized !  "  she  repeated  the  words. 
For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she  heard  the  word,  the 
ominous  word.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  such  a  con 
dition  as  demoralization  was  presented  to  her  intelligence. 
Was  that,  too,  to  be  in  the  future  ?  As  the  meaning  came 
clearer  and  clearer  to  her,  she  felt  more  affrighted  than 
at  the  weird  echo  of  the  guns  at  Vicksburg;  the  guns 
that  were  killing  the  bodies  of  the  husbands  and  brothers 
and  sons  of  the  Southern  women.  To  die  was  nothing 
in  comparison  to  living  demoralized  .  .  . 

While  she  was  thinking  to  herself,  her  husband  was 
following  his  thoughts  aloud :  "  It  is  the  worst  fate 
that  threatens  us.  If  we  do  not  fight  it,  we  will  go  under 
in  a  far  more  fatal  defeat  than  any  army  can  inflict  upon 
us.  To  lose  confidence  in  our  principles;  our  honor; 
ourselves — that  means  to  lose  our  place  in  the  nation." 

He  had  lost  sight  of  Dalton,  and  of  his  treachery. 


MADEMOISELLE    CORALIE 

"Dux  what  is  he  up  to  now,  eh?"  asked  Madame 
Joachim,  peeping  through  the  shutters  of  the  kitchen  into 
the  lane.  "  Ah !  Papa  Docteur,  some  trick,  I  guarantee." 

The  doctor  was  walking  slowly  along  with  the  priest, 
who  was  scratching  himself  reflectively  through  his 
cassock  as  he  always  did  when  he  walked.  He  had  been 
working  in  his  garden  and  was  bareheaded  and  held  a 
weed  absentmindedly  in  his  left  hand. 

"Do  you  see  how  painfully  the  doctor  walks?"  con 
tinued  Madame  Joachim,  "  and  listen  to  that  little  cough ; 
he  always  coughs  when  he  walks  with  the  cure.  In 
reality,  he  would  be  as  fat  as  I  am,  if  he  did  not  keep 
thin  to  deceive  people,  and  he  would  be  as  strong  as 
Joachim,  just  as  strong.  Don't  I  know  him?  Oh  la,  la! 
He  is  getting  something  out  of  Pere  Phileas  who  is  a 
fool,  he  is  so  simple.  The  good  God  must  love  him,  for 
he  has  not  the  sense  of  a  chicken.  But  what  is  he  up  to?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  is  going  to  get  married,"  suggested  the 
American  lady,  who  in  truth  did  not  know  how  else 
to  answer  the  reiterated  question. 

"But  to  whom?" 

'  To  Mademoiselle  Eulalie."  That  was  evidently  the 
answer  for  which  the  question  had  been  trapped. 

"  Eulalie !  Non,  mon  petit  docteur!  Not  Eulalie ;  but 
Maria,  but  Antonia,  but  Lisida,  yes.  But  not  Eulalie !  " 
She  shook  her  head,  first  negatively,  then  assertively. 

246 


MADEMOISELLE  CORALIE  247 

And  she  turned  it  from  the  window  for  a  moment  to 
relate,  once  more — for,  like  all  persons  who  like  to  tell 
their  own  stories,  she  did  not  care  how  many  times  she 
repeated  the  same  one — how  the  doctor  was  one  of  those 
men  who  had  his  way  with  women  and  therefore  any 
one  of  the  Demoiselles  San  Antonio  he  asked  would 
marry  him.  It  was  not  the  wonder  but  the  scandal  of 
St.  Medard  how  his  poor  wife  had  doted  upon  um  and 
would  tell  her  mother  and  sister — poor  Mademoiselle 
Eulalie — at  any  time  that  she  hated  them,  just  to  show 
off,  to  greater  effect,  her  love  for  her  husband.  She 
took  him  into  her  home  (Madame  Joachim's  hand  made 
a  gesture  of  hospitality)  and  gave  him  the  best  room; 
which  had  been  her  father's,  turning  her  mother  out  of 
it.  She  not  only  called  it  his  house  to  her  friends  but 
even  went  so  far  as  to  praise  his  kindness  in  letting  her 
mother  and  sister  stay  there.  When  he  was  away  from 
her  she  suffered  the  tortures  of  purgatory  from  jealousy, 
and  when  he  was  with  her  she  was  so  much  in  love  that 
it  was  as  painful  to  witness  as  her  jealousy.  She  was 
diseased  when  he  married  her!  Long  before  this  sen 
tence,  Madame  Joachim  was  again  watching  the  subject 
of  her  discourse  through  the  blinds.  "  He  knew  she 
could  not  live  long !  But  he  must  have  known  it !  Did 
he  not  attend  her  in  the  convent  ?  Every  one  there  knew 
it,  even  the  sisters!  Do  they  not  employ  him?  And 
do  not  they  enjoin  upon  all  the  faithful  to  employ  him? 
God  knows  why.  And  the  Cure?  .  .  .  Has  not  the 
doctor  given  a  statue  of  our  Lady  of  Lourdes  to  the 
church?  Does  he  not  go  there,  to  pray  before  it?  He 
thinks  no  one  knows  it  but  the  Cure,  but  I  know  it!  I 
ask  you?  A  doctor,  and  our  Lady  of  Lourdes,  eh?" 


248      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

winking  both  eyes.  "  Other  people,  yes,  but  a  doctor! 
And  the  poor  Cure  believes,  he  believes.  Aiel  Aiel 
Women,  yes, — but  a  man, — a  doctor.  .  .  . " 

Cribiche  now  came  creeping  up  behind  the  pair  until 
he  got  close  enough  to  twitch  the  gown  of  the  priest 
once,  twice,  three  times,  mumbling  something. 

"  No,"  answered  Pere  Phileas,  "  I  refuse.  You  can 
not  go  crayfishing."  The  boy  mumbled  again.  "  It  is 
true  as  you  sayr  this  is  a  good  day  for  it,  and  tomorrow 
is  Friday  and  crayfish  are  good  for  fasting,  but  you 
cannot  go.  You  must  finish  your  work  in  the  garden. 
The  weeds  have  taken  possession  of  it.  They  will  choke 
out  all  our  Spring  vegetables.  No,  my  son,  go  back  and 
pull  up  weeds.  Another  time  you  can  go  crayfishing." 

"  That  is  the  way,"  Cribiche  grumbled  in  the  way  of 
all  grumblers,  loud  enough  for  everybody  to  hear  except 
the  one  interested.  "  He  is  always  telling  me  to  ask 
permission :  '  you  must  not  go  off  without  asking  per 
mission/  and  when  I  ask  permission,  he  says  '  no.'  What 
is  the  use  of  asking  permission  when  he  always  says  '  no  '  ? 
I  would  never  go  crayfishing  if  I  waited  for  him  to  say 
'  yes.'  He  is  always  telling  me  to  pull  up  weeds !  .  .  . " 
In  the  meantime,  the  doctor  and  the  priest  were  leisurely 
pursuing  their  conversation  and  the  former  his  design 
in  the  conversation. 

"  Listen,  listen,"  whispered  Madame  Joachim.  The 
pair  were  nearing  the  window. 

"  Eh,  mon  Pere,"  the  doctor  was  saying  to  the  priest 
in  the  voice  he  must  have  used  in  his  devotions  to  the 
Lady  of  Lourdes.  "  What  do  we  know,  we  doctors  ? 
We  guess,  that  is  all.  Disease,  health,  life,  death? — We 
have  invented  a  little  more  light  to  throw  upon  them,  that 


MADEMOISELLE  CORALIE  249 

is  all.  How  can  we  doctors  say  what  is  going  to  happen  ? 
The  old  are  apt  to  die,  the  young  to  live  .  .  .  you  can 
make  the  calculation  as  well  as  any  one.  Look  at  the 
Charity  Hospital,  a  doctor  will  go  in  the  morning  to  the 
bed  of  a  patient  who  he  thinks  is  on  the  high  road  to 
recovery.  He  finds  the  bed  empty.  '  But  where  is  my 
patient,  Sister?*  he  asks.  'In  the  dead  room,  doctor, 
he  died  during  the  night.'  And  again,  he  goes  to  the 
bed  of  one  that  he  gave  up  the  night  before :  sent  for  the 
priest  for  him.  He  is  better.  In  a  few  days  he  is  well. 
What  can  we  count  on,  we  '  scientists,'  as  we  call  our 
selves  ? " 

The  simple  Cure  looked  like  a  cat  that  was  having  its 
back  scratched.  "  Ah,"  he  answered  gently :  "  It  is  God 
alone  who  makes  the  dispensation  of  life  and  death." 

"  Send  your  poor  to  me,  always,  mon  Pere.  I  will 
do  what  good  I  can  for  them ;  but  the  best  is  what  only 
you  can  do,  mon  Pere." 

"  God  and  the  blessed  Virgin,"  corrected  the  priest. 

"  I,"  continued  the  doctor,  "  I  give  my  services  gratui 
tously.  Why  not  ?  It  is  all  I  have  to  give.  Those  who 
have  money  give  money ;  those  who  have  not  money  give 
what  they  possess.  We  are  priests,  too,  in  a  way,  mon 
Pere." 

"  Servants  of  God  we  all  are,  Monsieur  le  docteur," 
answered  the  priest,  forgetting  Cribiche. 

"  We  must  do  something  for  the  church,  Monsieur  le 
Cure.  We  must  do  something  for  St.  Medard.  The 
church  needs  paint,  it  needs  cleaning  up." 

Now,  it  was  as  if  a  saucer  of  milk  were  presented  to 
the  cat. 

"  Every  Spring,  Doctor,  I  say  that  to  my  congrega- 


25o     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

tion,"  the  priest  rejoined  eagerly,  stopping  his  walk  short. 
"  Every  Spring !  I  have  a  sermon  for  the  purpose  and  I 
have  preached  it  over  and  over  again :  '  What,  my 
brothers  ? '  I  say.  '  The  good  God  renews  the  colors  of 
the  earth  every  Spring  and  you  cannot  renew  the  color  of 
your  church,  once  in  a  lifetime  ?  Look,'  I  say,  '  at  the 
most  miserable  garden,  at  the  ugliest,  at  the  muddiest 
street  in  the  parish  and  you  see  every  Spring,  what? 
Beautiful  flowers!  The  trees  with  new  leaves!  Even 
the  gutters  renew  their  simple  vegetation  in  the  Spring! 
That  is  what  good  God  prepares  for  our  Easter.  And 
we,  what  do  we  prepare  for  Him?  For  His  Easter?  ' 

He  would  have  gone  on  to  the  end  of  his  sermon,  for 
he  had  repeated  it  so  often  that  it  went  off  his  tongue 
by  itself,  but  the  doctor  interrupted  him. 

Turning  and  tapping  the  priest  on  the  breast,  he  said 
impressively :  "  I  shall  take  a  hand  in  it !  You  will  see  a 
difference  by  next  Easter.  What!  The  Parish  of  St. 
Medard  too  poor  to  paint  its  Church!  Bah! " 

"  Ah,  yes,  bah ! "  Madame  Joachim  echoed  mock 
ingly.  She  saw  his  schemes  as  clearly  as  she  saw  the 
great  ships  go  up  and  down  the  Mississippi,  past  the 
open  door  of  her  husband's  blacksmith  shop.  "  I  will 
paint  the  church  for  you,  my  good  father,  and  you  will 
praise  my  generosity,  and  my  piety  to  everybody,  particu 
larly  to  the  good  sisters;  so  the  San  Antonios  will  be 
bound  to  hear  it  ...  and  you  will  praise  me  to  my 
mother-in-law,  and  to  Eulalie — above  all  praise  me  to 
them  every  day,  for  they  are  so  pious  they  must  see 
their  priest  every  day.  Close  their  eyes,  softly,  softly, 
make  them  think  I  am  busy  attending  to  the  affairs  of  the 
church,  and  not  ...  oh,  yes!  and  I  will  paint  your 


MADEMOISELLE  CORALIE  251 

church  for  you.  That  is,  I  will  make  that  poor  devil 
Pantin,  the  painter,  do  it.  He  never  has  any  work  now, 
and  with  his  drinking  and  his  consumption,  he  is  always 
in  debt  to  me.  I  shall  never  be  able  to  make  my  money 
out  of  him.  I  will  make  him  do  it !  " 

If,  as  we  have  seen,  Doctor  Botot's  subtle  schemes 
could  not  be  hidden,  but  on  the  contrary  were  as  clearly 
seen  by  Madame  Joachim  as  ships  sailing  up  and  down 
the  Mississippi,  how  much  less  could  the  Americans  hope 
that  their  poverty  could  be  concealed  ?  But  the  Doctor's 
efforts  at  concealment  were  child's  play,  in  comparison 
with  their  full-grown  man  and  woman  struggle.  Pov 
erty,  however,  is  a  different  sort  of  secret  from  love. 
There  is  another  place  in  the  heart  to  hide  it;  a  darker 
corner,  a  deeper  cellar.  And  there  is  something  in  the 
self-reproach  that  a  confession  of  it  inflicts  that  bears 
down  the  pride  in  a  way  different  from  other  con 
fessions.  Even  the  poorest  of  women  shield  their  men 
from  the  accusation  of  it.  Human  patience,  indeed,  has 
been  burdened,  human  credulity  strained  with  the  reasons 
that  women  have  invented  to  account  for  it.  Nothing 
in  one's  past,  as  we  know,  is  more  carefully  covered  over. 

Later  on  in  the  day,  while  the  sun  was  marking  off 
the  radiant  Autumn  hours  past  the  noon,  and  the  quiet 
of  St.  Medard  was  disturbed  only  by  the  innocent  noise 
of  cattle  and  chickens,  Mrs.  Talbot  stood  under  the  fig 
trees  of  the  garden,  weeping  in  humiliation.  There  was 
no  nook  in  the  house  where  she  could  do  so  unseen. 
The  fig  leaves  hung  close  around  her ;  the  place  was  like 
a  cave;  there  was  not  light  enough  in  it  to  see  the 
creeping  things  on  ground  or  branch,  and  the  air  was 
dull  and  heavy.  But  it  was  a  good  retreat.  Instinctively, 


252      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

she  had  fled  to  it  when  she  felt  that  the  time  had  come 
when  she  could  no  longer  restrain  her  tears,  stifle  her 
sobs.  It  had  come  to  that.  She  had  to  weep  like  a 
child  over  what  in  truth  could  only  be  wept  over;  for 
there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  And  this  thought 
made  her  tears  and  sobs  come  faster,  more  uncontrol 
lably.  She  looked  in  her  mind  all  around  and  about, 
far  and  near,  on  this  side  and  on  that;  she  could  see 
nothing  but  darkness,  desolation,  degradation.  And 
even  while  she  wept  more  and  more  bitterly,  giving  up 
courage  in  hopeless  despair,  she  would  ask  herself : 
"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  and  exclaim :  "  I  must  do  something ! 
I  must  find  something  to  do !  " 

In  such  moments,  what  has  been  done  is  much  more 
present  to  the  mind  than  what  can  be  done.  While  the 
future  seemed  to  shut  the  door  in  her  face,  the  past 
brought  forward,  endlessly,  needlessly,  all  that  it  could; 
going  farther  and  farther  back  to  heap  an  accumulation 
of  memories  that  only  made  her  tears  flow  all  the  faster. 
There  was  her  childhood,  her  happy  thoughtless  child" 
hood,  her  indulgent  father  who  spent  his  money  and  good 
humor  so  generously;  the  tender  grandmother  who  had 
replaced  her  mother.  Then  before  she  knew  what  love 
was,  when  she  was  only  dreaming  about  it,  her  husband, 
descending  like  Jove  out  of  a  dazzling  cloud,  so  great, 
so  noble,  so  superior  to  all  men !  He,  the  supreme  one, 
whom  at  the  time  she  could  not  look  at,  could  not  talk  to 
without  trembling,  he  loved  her!  And  then  the  life 
that  followed:  a  bright  life  with  a  bright  light  shining 
upon  it ;  even  under  the  fig  tree  she  saw  and  felt  it  again. 

And  then  the  war.  That  did  not  seem  now  a  time  of 
suffering  at  all.  On  the  contrary,  how  easy  were  its 


MADEMOISELLE  CORALIE  253 

struggles  and  hardships  in  comparison  with  what  fol 
lowed!  What  one  suffered  then,  one  suffered  gladly, 
proudly.  And  afterward,  when  the  family  came  to  the 
city,  the  first  days,  how  pleasant  all  that  seemed!  And 
now  in  detail  and  more  minutely  came  the  events  of 
months,  weeks,  days,  each  one  greater  than  years  in 
the  farther  past.  "  Harry  was  right !  Harry  was  right !  " 
she  cried  to  herself.  "  We  are  doomed !  All  has  gone 
from  us,  even  our  old  selves!  What  are  we  now? 
What  friend  would  recognize  us  if  we  had  such  a  thing 
as  a  friend  left  to  recognize  us  ?  Friendship !  We  have 
not  so  much  as  a  church  nor  a  pastor  to  whom  I  could 
go  and  say :"  — As  a  dream  within  a  dream  so  in  imagi 
nation  within  imagination,  she  saw  herself  speaking  to 
a  pastor  such  as  the  old  pastor  of  her  church  had  been 
to  whom  the  poor  and  suffering  always  went  in  their 
extremities  of  grief  and  suffering — "  My  husband  is  at 
the  end  of  all  his  resources.  He  has  tried  everything. 
He  cannot,  in  the  conditions  that  exist,  make  money 
during  the  year  to  pay  our  house  rent,  let  alone 
provide  food  and  clothing  for  us.  His  old  practice  has 
left  him,  it  is  of  no  use  to  explain  how;  he  will  never 
get  a  new  one.  The  times  make  that  impossible.  What 
he  makes  is  from  writing  briefs  for  lawyers  who  do  not 
know  enough  to  write  them  for  themselves.  The  children 
are  being  educated  for  nothing;  we  cannot  pay  for  their 
schooling  any  longer.  If  it  were  not  for  the  boys'  fishing 
and  hunting,  I  do  not  know  what  we  would  do  for  food. 
I  do  the  cooking  and  washing.  It  is  a  miracle  how  I  get 
a  breakfast  and  dinner  every  day  and  a  clean  shirt  for 
my  husband.  I  brush  and  darn  his  coat  and  trousers 
every  morning  before  day,  so  that  he  may  not  know  how 


254      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

shabby  they  are.  He  dares  not  spend  five  cents  on  tobacco, 
he  uses  no  carfare  but  walks  every  day  to  his  office  and 
back.  He  really  has  no  office.  He  cannot  pay  the  rent. 
He  has,  in  truth,  only  a  place  in  the  office  of  his  former 
office  boy.  He  will  soon  have  to  sell  his  library  which 
he  has  held  to  the  last  minute.  Ah,  if  we  could  only 
prevent  that !  Great  God !  "  she  exclaimed,  losing  the 
thread  of  her  imaginary  address,  "  Great  God !  Prevent 
that!  What  will  he  do  without  his  library?  Has  not 
his  pride  been  cut  enough  already  without  that?  Must 
he  became  a  dependent  upon  Tommy  Cook  for  his  books 
too?  He  never  complains,  but  I  know  what  he  suffers. 
He  still  pretends  that  it  is  all  natural,  that  it  will  all 
come  right  in  the  end.  He  is  always  cheerful,  he  makes 
the  boys  study  all  the  same,  he  still  has  the  same  confi 
dence  in  his  principles.  Oh,  God!  make  me  suffer  if 
Thou  wilt,  more  and  more,  but  spare  him !  "  And  as 
her  love  for  her  husband  wrung  her  heart,  she  wrung 
her  hands  and  moved  her  head  wildly  in  the  dim  twilight 
under  the  trees,  as  if  trying  to  see  some  way  out  of  the 
darkness  in  her  mind. 

She  had  tried  to  help  him  in  secret  and  private  ways. 
She  had  gone  one  morning  to  see  Benson,  the  millionaire 
now,  whom  as  a  porter  she  used  to  speak  to  out  of  mere 
kindness  of  heart.  She  went  to  see  him  as  if  he  had 
been  one  of  the  most  aristocratic,  refined  men  in  the  city; 
went  to  his  house,  for,  a  lady  going  to  a  man's  office, 
her  husband  would  never  have  allowed.  She  thought  it 
out  in  the  car,  what  she  would  say  to  him  and  what  he 
would  say  to  her.  He  would  naturally  speak  of  her 
husband  and  then  it  would  come  to  pass  as  she  pictured 
it  in  her  imagination.  She  could  not  go  on  with  the 


MADEMOISELLE  CORALIE  255 

humiliating  memory  of  what  she  had  expected.  He  had 
not  mentioned  her  husband's  name.  He  had  pulled  out 
his  watch  before  she  had  more  than  time  to  speak  and 
had  dismissed  her.  He  said  he  must  go  to  his  office. 

And  she  had  written  to  George  Haight,  written  to  him 
as  she  thought  he  would  like  to  be  written  to  according 
to  the  past;  a  letter  of  old  friendship  and  kindly 
memories  and  frank  humor  over  the  present.  Ah,  she 
could  have  read  between  the  lines  of  such  a  letter,  had 
she  received  it!  She  in  a  rich  home  in  New  York  im- 
pregnably  strong  in  her  wealth  and  he  in  despair.  But 
she  would  not  allow  her  imagination  to  follow  this  out 
either.  Haight  wrote  as  he  talked;  acted  as  he  lived. 
He  was  not  a  gentleman  as  she  had  always  maintained. 
God  had  not  made  him  one,  that  was  all.  She  despised 
him  in  her  youth  and  she  despised  him  now. 

She  had  ventured  to  call  on  the  wives  of  some  of  the 
men  whom  she  and  her  husband  used  to  know  and  go 
to  the  races  with,  and  to  the  Boudreaux  dinners  after 
ward — the  wives  of  those  who  had  been  skilful  enough 
to  go  up  with  the  times  and  not  down.  Some  of  them 
fawned  upon  her  and  her  husband  obsequiously 
enough  in  the  old  days  of  prosperity.  Ah!  their  wives 
now  had  put  her  well  back  in  her  place!  The  place  of 
the  wife  of  a  poor  man  out  of  whom  nothing  can  be 
made.  A  woman  can  be  even  meaner  than  a  man! 

"  Where/'  she  asked  herself,  "  is  the  generosity  to  the 
poor  and  needy  that  he  used  to  show,  the  delicacy,  the 
tact  in  relieving  want  ?  " 

At  this  thought,  a  whole  landscape  rose  magically  be 
fore  her  filled  with  the  people  her  husband  had  been  kind 
to  in  the  past.  And  even  now,  when  he  was  an  object 


256      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

of  kindness  himself,  was  he  not  always  finding  out  those 
in  worse  need  than  he?  And  if  ever,  by  hook  or  crook, 
he  gained  a  small  sum  of  money!  was  there  not  always 
some  one  to  whom  a  portion  of  it  must  go?  Some 
one  who  even  by  hook  or  crook  could  not  gain  food  for 
his  children,  some  one  always  following  him  "  to  pick 
up  the  stalks  of  the  herbs  that  he  threw  away,"  like  the 
beggar  in  the  Spanish  verse. 

All  these  thoughts  and  memories  did  not  take  in  her 
mind  the  time  that  it  does  to  read  them  now.  They  came 
and  went  in  a  flash  like  the  thoughts  of  the  drowning. 
Nervous  and  sentimental  ladies  might  have  spent  a  day 
in  their  beds  over  a  single  one  of  them,  but  she  had  only 
moments  to  spare,  in  any  one  of  which  she  might  be 
discovered,  even  under  the  fig  tree.  It  was  but  a  few 
moments,  indeed,  from  the  tears  that  had  forced  her  to 
flee  into  privacy  to  the  moment  when  she  emerged  from 
the  tree,  calm  and  composed,  strong  and  determined, 
with  a  new  project  in  her  brain. 

Coralie,  the  little  governess,  whom  she  had  pitied  and 
helped  and  consequently  given  her  friendship  to.  After 
thinking  that  she  had  seen  her  in  a  confectionery,  and 
finding  she  was  mistaken,  she  had  dropped  her  from  her 
memory.  She  seemed  to  have  no  more  need  of  her 
since  she  could  be  of  no  further  use  to  her.  But  now, 
Coralie  could  be  of  use  to  the  friend  that  had  once 
served  her.  A  ray  of  light  seemed  to  fall  across  her 
mind !  How  foolish  not  to  have  thought  of  her  before ! 
Was  her  invalid  father  still  alive?  her  dissipated  brother 
still  as  much  of  a  sorrow  as  ever  ?  And  was  she  as  usual, 
still  in  dire  want,  needing  everything? 

How  distinctly  the  figure  of  the  little  Creole  governess 


MADEMOISELLE  CORALIE  257 

came  before  her,  clad  in  her  neat  calico  dress;  the  collar 
and  cuffs  scalloped  in  red,  her  curling,  glossy,  black  hair, 
in  a  twist  on  top  of  her  head,  with  the  pretty  fluffy 
"  accroche  occurs  "  on  her  temples,  her  rather  small  black 
eyes,  always  wide  open  and  alert,  her  dark  thin  skin  well 
dusted  with  rice  powder,  perfumed  with  the  faint  fra 
grance  of  Tonka  beans,  her  yellow  hands,  with  their  long 
pointed  finger  nails,  that  were  so  useful  in  her  em 
broidery^  Where  could  any  one  have  found  a  more 
gentle,  docile,  devoted  dependent;  one  more  grateful  for 
kindness ;  more  humble  in  her  confession  of  need  for  it  ? 
Never  without  a  pretty  speech  in  her  mouth,  a  compliment 
of  some  sort  for  somebody!  She  went  about  the  house 
inaudibly,  with  her  soft  footstep;  was  never  in  the  way 
but  always  within  the  sound  of  a  question,  a  bidding.  It 
was  marvelous,  in  truth,  to  the  patroness,  how  the  de 
pendent  managed  to  fix  herself  so  securely  in  her  de 
pendency  in  the  short  space  of  time  at  her  disposal, 
and  how,  indeed,  the  patroness  fell  herself  into  a  species 
of  dependency  upon  her,  the  dependency  of  the  generous 
upon  the  object  of  generosity. 

Did  she  live  in  the  same  place  ?  Somewhere,  in  a  back 
street  in  a  long  row  of  little  one-story  houses,  whose  steps 
came  down  to  the  sidewalk,  with  heavy,  green  batten 
shutters.  .  .  .  She  had  gone  there  once  or  twice  carry 
ing  some  delicacy  for  the  sick  father.  An  apothecary 
shop,  she  remembered  in  an  indistinct  way,  stood  on 
the  corner. 

Coralie  was  the  last  person  to  whom  she  said  good-bye 
when  she  left  the  city  to  go  into  the  war  as  it  was  called. 
The  details  of  the  hurried  departure  (for  she  had  been 
notified  only  in  the  morning  that  a  steamboat  would  be1 


258      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

ready  that  night  to  take  her  out  of  the  United  States 
lines)  shot  into  her  mind,  with  microscopic  distinctness. 
Coralie  at  least  did  not  lose  her  head,  her  hands  did  not 
tremble,  as  she  folded  and  packed.  She,  herself,  forgot 
everything  whenever  the  bell  rang  or  soldiers  marched 
by  in  the  street. 

Armoires  and  drawers  were  left  standing  open,  cloth 
ing  was  heaped  in  confusion  on  the  floor,  plates  and 
dishes  and  silver  were  left  on  the  dining-table,  the  side 
board  glittered  with  its  crystal,  the  buffet,  with  its  silver 
coffee  and  tea  service,  and  dishes  .  .  .  But  Coralie  was 
to  put  all  away — she  was  to  care  for  the  carelessness 
of  others.  Surely,  surely,  she  must  have  saved  some 
thing  for  her  patroness  as  Tommy  Cook  had  saved  for 
his  patron!  The  silver  forks  and  spoons — how  easy  to 
wrap  them  up  and  hide  them  in  her  trunk!  The  jewelry, 
left  in  the  bureau — that  little  box,  that  had  been  so  care 
fully  tied  up,  containing  the  most  precious  pieces,  to  take 
away,  and  then  forgotten  at  the  last  moment — each 
trinket  in  it,  chain  and  locket,  ring  and  bracelet  res 
urrected  suddenly  in  her  memory  as  from  the  grave, 
perhaps  some  of  it  was  saved !  The  officers  who  came  to 
seize  the  house  may  have  relented  and  relaxed  in  their 
vigilance. 

It  was  not  surprising  that  Coralie  had  not  found  her 
patroness.  Who  would  have  found  her  in  St.  Medard? 
She  was  waiting,  yes,  surely,  she  was  waiting  until  word 
was  sent  to  her  and  then — and  then  .  .  . 

And  so  in  spite  of  experience  and  of  common  sense, 
Mariana  Talbot  set  out  again  fresh  and  bouyant  on  a 
new  speculation  of  the  imagination;  investing  in  it  all 
the  remnant  of  hope  still  left  in  her  heart.  There  was 


MADEMOISELLE  CORALIE  259 

still  something  to  do!     Such  an  experiment  as  Made 
moiselle  Coralie,  still  to  be  tried! 

There  is  nothing  mysterious  in  the  ways  of  war.  On 
the  contrary  it  carries  out  its  designs  in  the  most  open 
manner  possible  and  by  the  simplest  and  most  natural 
means,  as  we  find  out  afterward — always  afterward. 
One  of  the  occupations  of  peace  is  to  find  this  out;  to 
see  and  handle  the  rude  devices  by  which  our  undoing  in 
war  was  accomplished.  The  surprises  of  war  are  indeed 
much  surpassed  by  those  of  peace.  As  has  been  said, 
Mademoiselle  Coralie  received  the  last  good-bye  of  her 
patroness,  and  when  the  family  drove  away  from  their 
home,  of  a  dark,  rainy  night,  she  remained  on  the  front 
steps,  looking  after  the  carriage  as  long  as  it  was  in  sight. 
Then  she  went  into  the  house,  the  sole  mistress  in  charge, 
with  what  keys  could  be  found  in  her  hand  (for  house 
wives  were  careless  in  those  days  about  locking  up  and 
a  key  once  out  of  its  hole  was  a  key  lost  and  a  lock 
nullified). 

The  only  directions  given  her,  were  to  do  the  best  she 
could  when  the  emergency  arrived,  that  is  when  the 
officer  and  soldiers  came  the  next  day  to  seize  and  take 
possession;  for  to  leave  the  city,  and  join  her  husband 
in  the  Confederacy,  instead  of  remaining  and  taking  a 
proffered  oath  of  allegiance  to  the  United  States,  was 
construed  into  an  act  of  enmity  by  the  military  authority 
in  command. 

Waiting  for  an  emergency  is  a  trial  to  the  spirit  as 
well  as  to  the  body  when  one  is  alone  in  a  great  empty 
house.  The  servants  who  had  not  wished  to  follow 
their  mistress  had  been  dismissed  to  their  freedom;  the 


260     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

only  retainer  left  of  the  establishment  was  an  old  Irish 
scrubbing-woman,  a  supernumerary,  and  the  erstwhile 
spurned  and  scoffed  of  the  pampered  slaves  for  her 
poverty.  She  was  to  remain  and  serve  Mademoiselle 
Coralie  and  while  also  awaiting  the  emergency  to  prepare 
the  house  for  it;  for  although  housewives  of  that  time 
were  careless  about  keys,  they  were  not  about  cleanliness. 

Mademoiselle  Coralie' s  trunk  stood  open  in  her  room. 
She  soon  filled  it  and  needed  another  one  to  hold  all 
that  was  given  her  in  the  last  moments  when  in  the 
hurried  packing  there  had  been  a  constant  discarding  of 
articles  and :  "  Coralie,  this  ought  to  be  useful  to  you, 
Coralie,  you  had  better  take  that."  Ladies  en  route  to 
a  war  and  with  the  limited  amount  of  luggage  allowed  by 
a  foe  carry  only  the  new  and  the  strong,  the  serviceable ; 
not  lace-trimmed  sacques  nor  fragile  deshabille es,  light 
evening  dresses,  embroidered  petticoats,  fichus,  sashes, 
hats,  feathers,  artificial  flowers,  the  follies,  fripperies, 
and  extravagances  of  many  a  day's  amusement  in  a 
pretty  shop.  They  were  all  as  welcome  to  Mademoiselle 
Coralie,  as  the  bonbons  her  mouth  had  been  watering 
for  from  infancy.  And  with  what  zeal  can  a  woman 
long  for  pretty  clothing?  It  can  become  a  passion  with 
her,  like  drinking  to  those  of  the  opposite  sex. 

The  old  Irish  woman  saw  her  in  the  solitude  of  her 
room  before  her  mirror,  trying  on  hats  and  veils,  laces, 
and  dresses,  when  from  moment  to  moment,  as  she  knew, 
the  summons  might  come  that  announced  the  arrival 
of  the  emergency.  But  all  over  the  city,  the  emergency 
was  knocking  at  the  doors  of  houses,  hastening  in  one 
direction  and  perforce  lagging  in  another.  Mademoiselle 
Coralie  had  ample  time  to  sip  at  her  own  beauty  in  the 


MADEMOISELLE  CORALIE  261 

glass  as  she  tried  on  each  new  seasoning  of  it.  And 
when  she  had  a  pause  in  that  pleasure  she  sought  and 
found  the  other  trunk  needed  to  hold  her  recent  acquisi 
tions.  She  chose,  the  largest  one  that  offered,  and  thence 
perhaps  came  the  divergence  in  her  life,  for  there  was 
space  left  in  her  new  trunk  after  packing  what  she 
rightfully  owned  and  she  sought  to  fill  this  space — with 
what? 

If  one  had  a  great  houseful  to  choose  from,  what 
would  one  select?  When  one  saw,  all  about,  everything 
one  wanted,  and  remembered  the  poor,  bare  rooms  await 
ing  one  at  the  other  end  of  the  city  and  knew  that  the 
emergency  was  on  its  way  that  would  put  an  end  to 
choice?  In  truth,  before  she  had  half  made  her  selec 
tion  she  needed  another  trunk,  and  having  begun  to 
collect  what  she  needed  she  could  not  stop.  The  house 
was  deserted,  and  in  a  few  hours,  minutes  perhaps,  she 
would  no  longer  have  option  or  opportunity  in  the  matter. 
It  became  a  race  between  her  and  the  emergency,  a 
race  for  possession.  Can  it  be  believed  that  it  took 
only  the  time  from  nightfall,  when  the  family  departed, 
until  daylight  for  Mademoiselle  Coralie  to  be  on  the 
street  engaging  a  cart  to  remove  her  trunks  ?  She  found 
it  as  one  can  generally  find  a  chance  to  do  wrong,  no 
farther  than  the  street  corner.  Carts  were  always  wait 
ing  in  sight  of  every  corner  then  for  surreptitious  re 
movals.  High  prices  were  charged  but  high  prices  were 
paid  for  such  services.  Mademoiselle  Coralie  was  ac 
commodated  to  perfection  in  man  and  cart.  The  former 
was  shrewd,  the  latter  covered;  only  a  half  word  was 
necessary  to  explain  the  urgency  of  secrecy  and  prudence. 

About  midday  the  house  was  formally  seized  by  the 


262     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

military  authorities.  Mademoiselle  Coralie  was  at  her 
post.  She  received  the  officers  and  transferred  the  keys 
to  them;  her  personal  trunk  was  duly  examined  and  she 
was  dismissed. 

On  reaching  home,  did  not  the  little  governess  regret, 
in  looking  back  upon  her  night's  work,  that  she  had  not 
taken  more  ?  What  were  the  blankets,  the  bed  linen,  the 
table  linen  she  had,  to  those  she  left  behind  ? — the  wines, 
the  liqueurs?  Perhaps,  had  she  known  the  ease  with 
which  the  transaction  could  be  accomplished,  her  poor 
old  Pleyel  piano  would  have  been  replaced  by  a  grand 
one.  Why  leave  velvet  rugs  behind  when  there  was  only 
matting  at  home?  She  could  have  provided  herself  with 
books  and  pictures;  and  she  was  fond  of  both.  But  if 
to  Mademoiselle  Coralie,  who  could  compare  what  she 
took  with  what  she  left,  the  covered  wagon  brought  little ; 
to  her  invalid  father,  and  invalid  (from  bad  habits) 
brother  it  was  much,  far  more  than  they  had  ever  hoped 
to  possess,  and  they  adapted  themselves  to  it  as  naturally 
as  heirs  to  a  rightful  legacy. 

The  curtains  were  hung,  table  covers  spread,  bibelots 
disposed  of,  china  and  glass  awarded  to  the  empty  side 
board,  and  Mademoiselle  Coralie  lost  little  time  in  don 
ning  some  of  her  new  toilettes ;  the  dainty  dressing  sacque 
over  the  long,  full,  trailing  half-worn  moire  antique  skirt, 
or  the  slightly  chiffone  foulard  (bunches  of  pink  roses 
on  blue  and  salmon  stripes  over  a  white  ground)  or  the 
pretty  silk  gauze;  white  with  pale  pin-dots  of  green  and 
sprigs  of  red  roses. 

All  this,  however,  turned  out  to  be  but  a  means  to  an 
end,  not  the  end  in  itself.  There  could  be  but  one  end  in 
Mademoiselle  Coralie' s  mind  as  in  the  mind  of  every 


MADEMOISELLE  CORALIE  263 

young  woman  like  her  and  it  is  needless  to  say  what  that 
end  is,  so  well  is  it  known,  so  well  was  it  known  even 
to  the  gargons  of  the  confectioneries  where  she  munched 
cakes  and  candies  with  the  officers  of  the  United  States 
army. 

Men  strive  no  harder  for  wealth  and  fame,  old  women 
for  immortality,  than  such  young  women  to  get  married. 
Everything  else  in  life  is  subservient  and  conduces  to 
that  one  end,  and  it  may  be  said  that  they  never  cease 
to  work  for  it,  even  when  they  are  past  it. 

Mademoiselle  Coralie,  having  been  born  in  the  condi 
tion  to  which  so  many  of  her  sisters  had  been  reduced 
by  a  hard  turning  of  fortune,  had  naught  to  catch  a 
husband  with  but  art  and  good  luck,  notoriously  poor 
servitors  of  the  poor.  Always  her  sorest  envy  of  the 
rich  had  been  that  they  could  get  married  "  quand  meme  " 
as  she  expressed  it;  no  matter  who  or  what  they  were. 
And  for  such  benefits  as  she  and  those  like  her  ex 
pected  from  marriage,  to  be  married  to  no  matter  what 
or  whom,  to  be  married  "  quand  meme  "  sufficed.  What 
a  luxury  in  her  eyes,  would  have  been  the  decried  manage 
de  convenance!  What  an  announcement,  as  of  the 
Heavenly  Father  Himself,  the :  "  I  will  that  you  become 
the  wife  of  so  and  so.  Come !  No  prayers !  No  tears ! 
Prepare  for  your  wedding!"  Ah,  only  in  novels  do 
poor  girls  find  such  royal  chances  in  their  path!  In 
truth,  Mademoiselle  Coralie's  poverty  was  so  great  and 
her  matrimonial  chance  so  meager  that  they  would  have 
warranted  any  tyrannical  interference  of  this  sort.  Thus, 
her  plunder  was  the  fulcrum  she  needed,  only  that! 
Would  not  Archimedes  have  stolen  one  if  he  could  not 
have  gotten  it  any  other  way? 


264     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

Had  Mademoiselle  Coralie  been  engendered  in  the 
bosom  of  Napoleon  Bonaparte's  army  she  could  not 
have  known  more  about  conquerors.  Yet,  perhaps,  it 
may  only  have  been  her  five  minutes'  interview  with  the 
young  officer  who  received  the  keys  from  her  that  re 
vealed  to  her  that  it  rested  with  no  one  but  herself  to 
change  her  lot  from  being  governess  of  children  to  gover 
ness  of  men.  She  very  soon  traveled  up  from  that  young 
officer  to  the  supreme  peak  of  military  state  and  authority 
and  became  gratissima  in  all  military  social  gatherings; 
and  before  her  borrowed  plumes  had  received  their  second 
wearing  out,  she  was  fledged  in  feathers  of  her  own 
growing.  Handsome  as  they  were,  she  wore  them  well. 
To  the  manor  acquired,  as  women  have  proved  for  ages, 
passes  just  as  well  in  demeanor  as  to  the  manor  born. 

In  the  course  of  a  year,  Mademoiselle  Coralie' s 
treasures  became  her  own  as  much  as  a  kidnapped  child 
would  have  been.  They  served  her  pleasure  and 
furthered  her  plans.  They  were  shown  and  cited  to 
substantiate  circumstantially  the  history  she  had  adopted 
for  the  satisfaction  of  her  conquerors  and  herself — a 
history  as  current  in  New  Orleans  as  the  little  song  "  Au 
clair  de  la  lune" — of  flight  from  San  Domingo,  escape 
from  massacre,  faithful  slaves,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  and  the 
ensuing,  long,  patiently-borne  straitened  circumstances 
of  the  ancien  regime  colonial.  .  .  a  romance  that  was 
new  to  her  audience,  who  believed  and  admired  it  and 
her  for  it.  Her  little  bibelots  of  china,  silver,  and  crystal, 
the  bits  of  antique  coral  and  tortoiseshell,  the  real  lace, 
and  the  few  precious  relics  of  old  jewelry  .  .  .  they  were 
her  witnesses;  she  and  they,  only,  knowing  the  truth. 

When  she  saw  her  old  benefactress  in  the  confection- 


MADEMOISELLE  CORALIE  265 

ery,  she  acted  (as  we  know)  on  the  flash  of  the  moment 
with  presence  of  mind.  She  decided  promptly  what 
to  do  furthermore.  She  kept  her  drunken  brother  on 
guard  at  the  window  of  the  little  house  with  a  well- 
taught  story.  But  nothing  came  of  the  recognition  in 
the  confectionery,  and  the  times  were  such  that  she  could 
not  but  grow  confident  in  her  immunity.  She  ripened 
in  it. 

Then  came  the  day  that,  sitting  at  the  window,  whose 
shutters  were  turned  to  command  that  view  of  the 
street  that  the  passersby  were  denied  of  the  interior 
of  the  house  (this  precaution  was  almost  a  necessity, 
living  as  she  did  with  visitors  to  be  admitted  and  visitors 
to  be  turned  away  plausibly) — sitting  at  her  crack  of 
observation,  her  quick  eyes,  trained  to  be  always  on  the 
alert,  caught  sight  of  a  lady,  pausing  irresolute  before 
the  apothecary  shop  at  the  corner;  hesitating  whether 
to  go  in  and  inquire,  or  hazard  a  trial  inquiry  first.  The 
trial  was  decided  upon;  and  with  confident  sureness  and 
a  wistful  smile  of  anticipation  she  approached  the  little 
house  whose  wooden  steps  came  down  on  the  pavement 
whose  shutters  were  heavy  green,  as  she  remembered 
from  the  past.  The  invalid  brother  it  was  who  answered 
the  knock,  he  to  whom  she  used  to  bring  wine  and  deli 
cacies.  His  drunken,  loud  voice  demanding  her  business, 
would  have  been  enough  to  convince  the  inquirer  of  her 
mistake,  to  have  sent  her  off  in  terror;  but  that  was 
not  enough  for  the  sagacious  Mademoiselle  Coralie. 
The  inquirer  was  made  to  ask  her  questions  in  order  that 
she  might  be  told  that  the  people  had  moved  away  long 
ago,  and  nobody  in  the  neighborhood  knew  where  they 
had  gone  to. 


266      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

What  did  the  little  governess  feel  when  she  heard 
that  gentle  voice  on  the  outside  of  her  door  ?  The  sweet 
sorrowful  voice,  almost  breaking  from  regret  and  dis 
appointment?  When  she  saw  the  thin,  graceful  figure, 
so  well  known  in  old  days,  in  a  shabby  dress  move 
slowly  away,  on  tired  feet?  When  the  kindest  friend 
she  was  ever  to  know  in  this  world  was  turned  away 
with  a  lie? 

Could  the  benefactress  of  old  have  looked  into  that 
room  she  would  have  seen  Mademoiselle  Coralie  shrink 
ing  from  her  voice  as  from  the  voice  of  a  monster  listen 
ing  to  the  passing  away  of  her  footsteps,  as  to  passing 
away  from  her  of  a  dragon  or  ogre. 


THE  FEAST  OF   ST.   MEDARD 

THE  good  thing  promised  to  St.  Medard  by  the  doctor 
came  to  pass.  The  church  was  painted — only  on  the 
outside,  however,  the  inside  being  left  as  the  Gascons 
leave  the  insides  of  their  cottages  when  they  whitewash 
the  outside.  And  it  was  not  ready  for  Easter,  as  Pere 
Phileas  had  piously  wished,  but  again  had  to  suffer  com 
parison  with  nature  in  that  beautiful  season  of  renova 
tion.  It  was  only  ready  for  the  feast  of  its  patron  saint. 
It  now  seemed  to  the  simple  Pere  Phileas,  seeking 
always  religious  signification  in  everything,  that  poor 
Patin's  revolt  against  thus  paying  his  debt  to  the  doctor, 
his  revengeful  delays,  his  malicious  mistakes,  his  quarrels 
with  the  doctor  about  the  quantity  of  paint  to  be  fur 
nished  and  the  quality,  his  dishonesty  in  using  what  was 
furnished,  his  constant  trickiness  and  cheating,  his  lies, 
his  wilful  sprees  of  drunkenness  and  the  illnesses  that  fol 
lowed,  owing  to  his  weak  lungs — it  seemed  to  the  good 
Cure  who  like  a  plodding  ass  had  borne  the  burden  of  it 
all,  now  that  it  was  all  over  and  past,  and  he  was  in  a 
position  to  look  back  upon  it — the  only  sure  way  after 
all  of  knowing  the  reasons  of  the  divine  will — that  all 
these  circumstances  had  been  carefully  fore-ordained 
and  systematically  regulated,  one  after  the  other,  in  order 
that  the  good  and  patient  St.  Medard,  who  for  so  many 
years  had  stood  from  his  unworthy  parish  what  Pere 
Phileas  could  never  cease  reproaching  it  for,  that  he 

267 


268      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

should  have  the  honor  of  the  great  accomplishment,  and 
that  to  him  should  be  paid  the  compliment  of  the  pro 
cession  with  which  it  was  to  be  celebrated. 

Ah,  when  it  came  to  the  celebration  of  the  event,  no 
one  could  complain  of  want  of  zeal  in  that  parish!  The 
very  ones  who  had  shown  most  energy  in  avoiding  any 
contribution  to  the  furtherance  of  the  good  work  were 
the  most  eager  now  to  contribute  to  the  celebration  of  its 
accomplishment  .  .  .  and  when  it  was  announced  from 
the  pulpit  that  Monseigneur  himself  would  honor  the 
procession  with  his  presence  in  it;  the  procession  was 
formed  instantly,  so  to  speak,  before  the  eyes  of  every 
Gascon  present;  each  man  seeing,  not  so  much  Mon 
seigneur  walking  in  it,  as  himself  and  his  family,  dressed 
in  their  finest  clothes,  while  other  Gascons  in  crowds 
from  their  dairies  and  gardens  in  other  parts  of  the  city 
stood  along  the  way  to  admire — a  great  and  glorious 
procession  about  which  the  people  of  St.  Medard  would 
ever  afterward  tell  great  Gascon  tales. 

There  was  no  difficulty  now  in  getting  the  streets  and 
gutters  around  the  church  cleaned  of  the  disgraceful 
weeds  against  which  Pere  Phileas  had  so  often  tried  to 
start  a  crusade,  which  had  not  been  cut  since  the  church 
was  built,  according  to  the  sad  memory  of  those  who 
were  old  enough  to  remember  that  event. 

The  good  St.  Medard,  if  he,  as  the  Cure  believed  and 
affirmed,  was  ever  watching  the  affairs  of  his  parish  and 
knew  all  that  was  going  on  in  it,  no  matter  how  much 
pains  were  taken  to  conceal  things  from  the  eyes  of  its 
curate;  the  good  St.  Medard  must  have  been  amused  to 
see  (after  the  doctor  and  Patin  had  wiped  out  the  sin 
of  their  neglect)  the  pride  and  boasting  of  his  Gascons 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  M^DARD  269 

over  the  painting  of  the  church  (poor  Patin  meanwhile 
getting  drunk  and  telling  his  grievances  in  Pepe's  bar 
room),  and  how  quickly  they  reversed  their  former  posi 
tion,  they  now  acting  the  benefactor,  he  becoming  the 
beneficiary;  and  to  note  the  increasing  number  of  peti 
tions  sent  to  him,  and  the  confidence  with  which  they 
were  despatched,  like  checks  against  a  full  deposit  in 
bank;  for  cows,  calves,  mules,  gardens,  chickens,  dry 
weather  or  rain,  lifting  of  mortgages,  collecting  of  debts 
or  assistance  in  avoiding  payments  of  them.  .  .  .  Poor 
Patin  was  the  only  one  to  send  in  no  prayers,  to  ask  for 
nothing. 

St.  Medard,  doubtless,  did  send  the  beautiful  weather 
needed  for  the  celebration,  for  it  is  seldom  he  does  not 
send  a  good  June  to  the  city  whose  conviction  has  grown 
into  the  saying  that  as  it  rains  or  shines  on  St.  Medard 
it  will  rain  or  shine  for  thirty  days  afterward.  And 
Nature  was  not  behind  in  her  bounty;  the  supply  of 
flowers  surpassed  even  that  of  Easter.  There  was, 
indeed,  such  an  abundance  of  them  that  the  way  of  the 
procession  through  the  ugly  streets  was  over  lilies,  roses, 
magnolias,  jasmins,  oleanders,  crape  myrtles;  and  the 
four  halting  places — the  altars — were  in  appearance  great 
bouquets.  So  sweetened  was  the  air  with  their  perfume 
that  the  way  of  the  incense  through  it  was  as  truly 
heavenly  as  that  of  Monseigneur,  the  Archbishop, 
through  the  streets. 

It  was  a  pretty  procession,  and  one  with  which  St. 
Medard,  looking  down  from  the  blue  sky  above,  as  most 
of  the  people  thought  he  was  doing,  might  well  have  been 
pleased:  Monseigneur  in  front  under  a  canopy,  Made 
moiselle  Mimi,  singing  her  best  and  pushing  her  choir 


270     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

in  the  back  to  make  them  sing  their  best  instead  of  gaz 
ing  open-mouthed  at  the  canopy  over  Monseigneur;  the 
Demoiselles  San  Antonio  in  their  trailing  white  muslin 
dresses  and  shapely  arching,  high-heeled,  bronze  bottines, 
and  all  the  Gascons,  each  man  of  them,  swaggering  along 
as  if  St.  Medard  owed  him  a  big  bill  for  milk  or  vegetables 
for  which  he  would  be  forced  to  pay  in  the  currency  of 
Paradise;  their  wives  and  children  trudging  after  them 
happy  and  smiling  as  Gascon  wives  and  children  always 
are,  when  their  men  are  good-humored  and  swaggering 
— that  being  their  idea  of  Paradise ;  old  Aglone  hobbling 
along  with  the  negroes  at  the  end;  and  such  a  crowd  of 
lookers-on — Gascon  friends  and  relatives,  negroes  from 
the  plantations,  soldiers  and  riff-raff  from  the  barracks; 
even  those  who  did  not  believe  that  St.  Medard  was 
watching  them  from  above  walked  as  if  they  believed  it. 
Few  indeed  in  the  parish  had  not  responded  to  the 
call  of  the  church  bell.  Patin,  as  might  be  suspected, 
was  not  there,  nor  that  pirate,  at  least  in  religion, 
Joachim,  nor  the  old  San  Antonios,  who  were  doubtless 
sitting  as  usual  on  their  low  squat  chairs  in  front  of 
their  onion-smelling  basement  room  as  they  had  sat  in 
front  of  their  whisky-smelling  bar,  during  many  a  festi 
val  at  the  Cathedral.  Monsieur  Pinseau  would  be  in  his 
old  cane  chair  on  his  gallery  looking  at  his  flowers,  with 
Belle  at  his  feet,  paying  no  more  attention  to  St.  Medard 
than  St.  Medard  did  to  him — except  when  the  old  dog 
would  raise  her  head  and  howl  impatiently  at  the  hysteri 
cal  clamor  of  the  church  bell  whose  rope  Cribiche  pulled 
as  if  he  too  wished  to  put  St.  Medard  in  his  debt  and 
remind  him  that  he  was  in  the  parish  if  not  in  the 
procession  as  well  as  Monseigneur  and  the  Cure.  Made- 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  M&DARD  271 

moiselle  Mimi,  as  has  been  said,  was  there,  and  the 
Demoiselles  San  Antonio,  Madame  Joachim,  and  Aglone, 
and  old  Zizi,  and  the  doctor — no,  not  the  doctor,  not 
Doctor  Botot.  He  was  not  there,  for,  as  said  Madame 
Joachim,  he  had  patients  or  wanted  to  have  them,  who 
did  not  care  for  processions  any  more  than  for  Our 
Lady  of  Lourdes ;  as  he  had  patients  who  did.  So  he 
arrived  only  at  the  last  moment,  in  the  greatest  haste 
from  the  car,  just  as  the  procession  was  receiving  Mon- 
seigneur's  benediction  from  the  church  porch. 

The  Americans,  husband  and  wife,  sat  on  their  gallery 
under  the  wistaria  vine.  They  could  smell  the  incense 
and  the  perfume  of  the  flowers  and  they  could  hear  the 
chanting  and  singing  which  rose  and  fell  softly  as  the 
procession  moved  along  from  station  to  station  and 
when  it  stopped  the  muttering  of  prayers  before  the  altars 
like  the  buzzing  of  bees.  But  the  husband  did  not  seem 
to  hear  anything  of  it  nor  to  know  what  was  going  on 
in  the  street.  With  his  eyes  fixed  meditatively  on  the 
garden,  or  on  the  bright  blue  sky  above,  he  was  follow 
ing  the  course  of  his  usual  Sunday  afternoon  thoughts; 
the  future,  the  prospect  before  them  as  he  called  it ;  that 
thought-worn  road  over  which  he  and  his  wife  traveled 
so  incessantly.  The  mud  street  outside  the  fence  with 
its  ruts,  ridges,  and  hoof  holes  was  not  better  known  to 
her  feet  than  this  one  to  her  mind. 

"  There  is  no  need  that  I  can  see  for  discouragement " 
— this  was  always  the  burden  of  his  intimate  talk  with 
her — "  the  country  is  recovering  from  its  excitement ; 
calm  judgment  is  gaining  its  way  by  degrees ;  prosperity 
is  bound  to  come  with  law  and  order;  the  best  men  at 
the  North  are  taking  the  lead;  the  newspapers  are  com- 


272      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

ing  to  their  senses ;  the  worst  is  over,  the  worst  is  over ; 
we  have  to  be  patient  only  a  little  longer,  there  is  plenty 
of  business  for  us  so  soon  as  we  have  a  chance  to  take 
hold  of  it ;  the  children  are  doing  well ;  the  Summer  will 
be  a  healthy  one,  next  Winter  will  be  an  improvement 
on  the  past  one;  I  am  confident  .  .  ."  The  church  bell 
was  not  more  faithful  to  its  ringing  than  he  to  his. 
And  she,  faithful  to  her  ringing  also,  answered  him  in 
her  usual  way;  seeing  what  he  wanted  her  to  see  and 
even  more,  adding  to  his  store  of  confidence  all  sorts  of 
little  things  that  she  had  been  able  to  pick  up  around 
the  home  and  neighborhood.  She  must  have  been 
gathering  them  all  throughout  the  week,  never  passing 
one  by;  as  the  old  peasant  women  in  Europe  never  pass 
a  twig  lying  on  the  ground  but  always  pick  it  up  to  add 
to  their  little  store  of  future  fire  and  warmth.  She  knew 
even  more  of  the  improvement  of  the  children  than  he 
did,  and  had  always  ready  examples  at  hand  to  prove 
the  truth  of  his  observations;  the  boys  always  doing 
what  he  would  like  to  hear,  the  little  girls  what  would 
flatter  his  aspirations  for  them;  and  as  their  old  friends 
had  once  bloomed  in  her  conversation,  so  now  did  the 
new  ones  of  St.  Medard,  the  poorest  and  most  miserable 
material  for  friendship  that  could  be  found,  one  would 
'think,  the  sorriest  expedients  in  the  way  of  substitutes 
for  what  they  had  once  enjoyed,  while  the  passions  that 
stormed  in  her  heart  when  she  thought  of  politics  and 
politicians  seemed  to  be  but  the  resting-place  of  halcyon 
ideas  for  her  to  give  him.  She  found  a  way  even  to 
speak  of  national  honor  so  as  not  to  offend  but  rather 
please  his  sense  of  justice.  She  accepted  his  prognostica 
tions  for  the  good  ending  of  the  present  as  she  used 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  M&DARD  273 

to  do  those  for  the  good  ending  of  the  war  .  .  .  strew 
ing,  in  fact,  their  trampled  dirt  road  of  a  future  with 
flowers,  as  the  Gascons  had  their  streets  to  hide  their 
ugliness.  His  empty  hand,  which  could  not  get  over  its 
habit  of  holding  cigar  or  pipe,  moved  restlessly  along 
the  arm  of  his  chair,  his  long  fingers  feeling  for  some 
thing.  When  he  noticed  this,  he  would  place  his  hand 
between  his  knees  to  keep  it  still.  And  as  his  mind 
held  to  its  habit,  so  did  her  eyes  to  an  old  habit  of 
theirs;  the  habit  of  the  young  wife  glancing  ever  at  her 
husband's  face,  peeping  at  her  happiness  to  see  if  it  was 
still  there.  But  now  her  eyes,  on  the  contrary,  seemed 
to  be  ever  touching  a  sore  spot  to  see  if  it  still  hurt; 
looking  to  see  if  his  hair  was  really  streaked  with  gray, 
if  those  were  really  wrinkles  down  the  cheeks,  if  the 
eyes  that  once  burned  with  such  fire  were  really  heavy- 
looking  and  with  but  one  dim  light  under  the  drooping 
lids.  In  spite  of  his  talk  of  courage  and  hope,  he  looked 
weary  and  sad,  and  as  unconsciously  as  his  hand  sought 
his  pipe,  his  lips  seemed  ever  wanting  to  sigh  and  to  be 
refraining  from  it. 

Had  he  come  out  of  the  war  looking  this  way,  she 
would  not  have  been  surprised.  Wars  are  waged  for 
the  purpose  of  killing  and  wounding  men  or  at  least 
wearing  out  their  hope  and  courage.  But  no,  he  came 
out  of  the  war  looking  and  feeling  stronger  than  when  he 
went  in.  He  could  have  fought  in  the  war  forever,  it 
seemed  to  his  wife  at  the  time.  The  great  cause,  the 
great  devotion  it  exacted,  seemed  to  act  on  him  like  the 
leaves  of  the  plant  that  the  old  Choctaw  woman  who 
came  to  see  Cicely  told  her  about ;  leaves  that  the  Choctaw 
warriors  used  to  chew  when  on  the  war  path  to  keep 


274      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

them  from  feeling  wounds,  hunger  or  fatigue;  that 
kept  them  up  without  food  or  drink  when  they  were 
beaten  and  had  to  make  their  way  back  to  their  people 
through  a  country  swarming  with  enemies  on  the  watch 
for  them.  They  had  lost  the  plant  somehow,  the  old 
squaw  said  and  their  descendants  had  never  been  able 
to  find  it  and  so  they  had  all  died  out.  She  herself,  who 
had  spent  her  life  gathering  herbs  in  the  forest,  had 
always  been  looking  for  it  and  had  never  found  it. 
Many  a  time  the  wife  had  wished  she  could  find  that 
plant  too. 

"  Ah,"  she  said  to  herself,  in  her  simple  way,  "  who 
would  care  for  things,  if  one  could  stop  feeling  them !  " 

To  entertain  her  husband  she  repeated  to  him  the 
story  of  the  old  Choctaw  squaw.  She  could  not  have 
had  a  happier  inspiration.  It  led  him  from  the  future 
to  the  past,  to  the  Summers  he  had  lived  with  the  Indians, 
to  hunting  and  fishing  adventures,  and  to  the  stories  he 
had  gathered  of  their  good  qualities  of  friendship, 
bravery,  and  stoicism.  The  children  who  came  in  from 
looking  at  the  procession  drew  closer  and  closer  to  him 
in  their  interest  as  they  listened  until  the  trumpet  from 
the  barracks  sent  them  to  bed. 

To  recall  any  part  of  youth  and  pleasure  is  to  recall 
all  of  it.  And  what  a  pageant  memory  can  furnish  when 
one  looks  back  out  of  an  iron  age  of  poverty  to  a  golden 
age  of  youth? 

The  trail  led  in  peaceful  windings  from  the  Indians 
to  what  followed  the  vacations  passed  with  them  and 
what  followed  them  .  .  .  and  on  and  on,  in  gentle 
declivity,  until  the  two  memories  came  together,  joined, 
and  became  one. 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  M^DARD  275 

The  graceful  wistaria  leaves  and  curling  tendrils — that 
earlier  in  the  evening  had  hung  before  their  eyes  like 
a  pretty  lace  over  the  blue  sky  and  later  over  the  golden 
clouds  of  sunset — now,  as  the  moon  rose,  fell  in  light, 
fragile  shadows  on  the  wall  of  the  old  house.  As  she 
listened  to  her  husband  in  silence,  the  wife  let  her  eyes 
follow  the  tremulous  garlandings  and  trailings  as  the 
soft  evening  breeze  played  gently  over  them,  thrilling 
them  into  motion,  until,  growing  stronger  with  the  moon 
light,  it  ended  by  tossing  them  up  and  down,  chasing 
them,  running  them  together  and  apart  in  boisterous 
frolic,  so  that  they  rippled,  as  in  irrepressible  laughter 
from  one  end  of  the  gallery  to  the  other ;  the  irrepressible 
laughter  of  children  that  begins  and  ends  in  nothing 
while  the  old  wall,  growing  ever  brighter  as  the  full  moon 
shone  straighter  upon  it,  shone  at  last  behind  the  leaves 
pure  white,  brightened  out  of  all  its  dinginess  and  stains 
of  time  and  weather.  Brightened  too  by  the  moonlight, 
out  of  all  its  marring  lines  of  anxiety  and  care,  the 
husband's  face  shone  too,  at  last  pure  white,  noble,  hand 
some,  fair  and  smooth  as  in  the  day  when  the  two 
memories  joined  together  and  became  one. 

They  drew  near  to  one  another,  and  talked  together, 
after  the  two  memories  became  one!  In  the  moonlight, 
with  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers  offered  to  St.  Medard 
still  in  the  air,  and  the  soft  sound  of  prayers  and  chants 
with  the  evening  breeze  playing  through  the  clouds  over 
head  and  sending  the  shadowy  leaves  and  tendrils  be 
hind  them  into  ripples  of  laughter — where  was  the 
ugly  mud  road  of  a  future?  Where  the  burdens,  cares, 
anxieties?  where  the  wrinkles,  gray  hair,  dim  eyes,  and 
drooping  shoulders  ?  Nowhere  in  sight,  nowhere  in  feel- 


276      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

ing!  Brightened  out  of  life  as  the  stains  and  holes 
had  been  brightened  out  of  the  old  wall;  until  it  too 
glistened,  pure  white  for  thought  to  play  upon,  for 
the  heart  to  make  its  pretty  garlandings  and  trailings 
upon. 

Only  a  pleasant  sleep  could  follow  so  pleasant  an 
evening.  One  from  which  all  care  and  trouble  had  been 
filtered,  a  pure  dreamless  sleep  that  flowed  on  peacefully, 
illimitably;  the  sweetest  kind  of  sleep  to  the  weary,  the 
kind  that  they  would  abide  in  forever ;  out  of  which  they 
awake  slowly  and  reluctantly;  trying  still  to  hold  on  to 
its  caressing  ease  and  to  float  out  once  again  into  its 
great,  blissful  open  of  unconsciousness.  But  while  the 
wife  languidly  strove  to  retain  it,  she  heard  her  husband 
talking  to  her;  laughing  as  if  they  were  still  sitting  in  the 
fragrant  moonlight  on  the  gallery.  She  thought  she 
was  still  dreaming — dreaming  that  everything  else  but 
the  dream  itself  was  a  dream ;  that  they  were  still  in  the 
time  of  youth  and  love  and  wealth  when  they  could 
laugh  together  over  balls  and  dinners,  opera  and  theater ; 
the  things  that  rich  young  people  laugh  over  at  night 
when  they  come  back  from  them. 

But  it  was  only  for  a  moment  that  sleep  could  thus 
dally  with  her.  Keen-edged  reality,  cutting  into  her  like 
a  sharp  knife,  awoke  her.  Her  husband  was  burning 
with  fever,  he  was  delirious!  She  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  the  universe  in  delirium,  out  of  its  senses 
as  he!  She  ran  through  the  dark  to  the  room  of  her 
boys :  "  Quick !  quick !  "  she  called,  shaking  them  roughly. 
"The  doctor!  Your  father!  .  .  ."  Her  voice  sank  to 
the  familiar  whisper  of  the  nightmare.  She  tried  to 
speak  aloud  but  could  not. 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  M&DARD  277 

The  doctor  came  and  sat  by  him  until  daylight,  humor 
ing  his  fancies,  listening  to  his  vagaries  until  he  per 
suaded  him  to  take  a  potion.  At  last  when  sleep  visited 
him,  the  doctor  left,  but  he  went  for  Madame  Joachim 
and  sent  her  to  watch  by  the  bed  in  his  absence. 

How  surely,  how  treacherously  do  fevers  come  upon 
us!  There  is  no  foe  to  humanity  that  shows  more  in 
sidious  cunning  in  slipping  into  and  getting  possession 
of  a  body,  which  if  only  warned  in  time  could  so  easily, 
with  a  mere  trifle  of  defense,  defy  him :  "  Did  you  not 
notice  ?  Could  you  not  see  ?  "  When  it  is  too  late,  it  is 
easy  enough  to  ask  questions  and  as  easy  to  answer  them. 
"  Yes,  it  was  noticed,  yes,  it  was  seen,  this  symptom  and 
that;  but  that  was  not  the  enemy  expected,  watched 
for ! "  When  one  is  attacked  by  poverty,  when  one  is 
in  full  struggle,  hand  to  hand,  with  poverty,  one — and 
that  is  the  misery  of  it — one  can  think  of  nothing  else 
but  it;  there  seems  nothing  else  in  life  but  it  to  think 
about.  And  there  is  so  much  in  poverty  that  resembles 
disease;  the  heavy  head,  the  tired  thoughts,  disturbed 
sleep,  low  spirits,  aching  limbs,  loss  of  appetite  and  the 
painful  sense  of  fatigue  all  the  time!  The  constant 
straining  of  energies,  the  thinking,  thinking,  thinking !  the 
effort  to  keep  up  courage  in  others ;  the  forced  cheerful 
ness  and  the  work — the  never-ending  work !  Who  could 
sleep  at  the  end  of  such  a  day,  eat  meals  that  cost  so  much 
anxiety?  Who  could  think  of  caring  for  self? 

The  wife  explained  all  this  to  the  doctor,  as  if  he  did 
not  know  it  already,  as  if  his  understanding  it  would 
help  the  patient;  telling  all,  keeping  back  nothing,  as 
if  keeping  back  anything  would  hinder  the  cure. 

"Walking  to  the  city  every  day  and  back  to  save 


278     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

carfare;  coming  in  so  tired/'  she  said,  looking  earnestly 
in  the  doctor's  face. 

"  He  was  tired/'  answered  the  doctor. 

"  He  would  eat  nothing." 

"  Ah,  he  had  no  appetite,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  He  took  only  a  cup  of  coffee  in  the  morning,"  she 
continued,  too  intent  on  her  own  thoughts  to  notice  his 
interruptions.  "  And  it  seemed  hard  for  him  to  get  up ; 
often  he  would  go  back  and  sit  on  the  bed  and  wait." 

"  It  was  hard  for  him  to  get  up,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  And  then  working  in  the  garden  every  afternoon, 
every  afternoon  except  Sunday,  so  that  we  would  at  least 
have  vegetables  to  eat.  I  am  sure  his  back  and  limbs 
ached  afterward." 

The  doctor  nodded.     "  They  did  ache." 

"  And  at  night,  teaching,  teaching,  until  the  boys  knew 
their  lessons  to  his  satisfaction.  And  they  were  so  slow, 
so  stupid !  "  she  exclaimed  passionately.  "  He  wanted 
them  to  learn  Greek  as  well  as  Latin  and  mathematics. 
I  would  see  him  put  his  head  on  his  hand  while 
he  was  trying  to  drum  it  into  them,  as  if  his  head 
hurt  him." 

"Of  course,  it  hurt  him,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Often  I  felt  like  crying  out  to  the  boys :  '  Why  don't 
you  learn  faster  ?  Can't  you  learn  faster  ? '  I  would 
have  learned  anything  rather  than  keep  him  sitting  there, 
so  tired,  so  pale,  so  patient,  so  thin,  and  miserable- 
looking." 

"  He  was  miserable-looking  because  he  felt  miserable," 
answered  the  doctor. 

"  And  then  he  did  not  sleep  at  night,  he  was  so  rest 
less." 


THE  FEAST  OF  ST.  M^DARD  279 

"  Ah,  that  was  the  fever.  He  had  fever  every  night," 
said  the  doctor. 

"  I  would  say  I  was  restless  and  could  not  sleep,  just 
to  let  him  talk  to  me  and  stop  thinking  of  his  affairs." 

The  doctor  nodded. 

"  Sometimes  we  would  talk  all  night  long,  going  over 
and  over  everything.  He  would  not  say  so,  but  I  could 
see  he  was  discouraged.  On  the  contrary,  he  would  tell 
me  how  much  hope  and  confidence  he  had." 

"  And  you  would  tell  him  the  same,  eh?  "  the  doctor 
asked. 

"  Oh,  I  never  let  him  see  that  I  was  discouraged,  that 
I  was  not  confident  and  cheerful  no  matter  what  hap 
pened.  And  no  matter  what  he  hoped,  there  was  dis 
appointment  after  disappointment."  Her  voice  trembled, 
she  could  not  help  it.  "  Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend,  but 
disappointed  him!  And  the  one  he  trusted  best,  whose 
honor  he  was  surest  of,  he  " — her  voice  did  not  tremble 
now,  it  grew  stronger  with  temper  and  her  eyes  burned, 
"he — he  more  than  disappointed  him,  he  deceived  and 
betrayed  him." 

"  Ah,"  said  the  doctor,  "  all  that  goes  together." 

"  And  the  house  rent  always  before  him !  Do  you 
know  how  he  made  the  house  rent  ?  "  she  asked  in  her 
despair.  "  He  wrote  briefs  and  prepared  arguments  for 
other  lawyers  who  could  not  write  their  own  briefs  in 
the  cases  they  got,  but  which  my  husband  could  not  get. 
Carpet  baggers,  scalawags,  rapscallions,  the  scum  and 
refuse  of  politicians,"  she  flung  the  words  out  of  her 
mouth  with  disgust,  "  they  received  the  money  that  he 
earned." 

The  doctor  tapped  her  on  the  shoulder  with  his  finger 


280     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

to  draw  her  attention  to  himself.  "  He  has  had  the 
fever,  or/'  he  could  not  resist  the  witticism,  "  the  fever 
has  had  him  for  I  cannot  tell  how  long.  How  long  will 
it  hold  on  to  him?  That  depends  upon  how  long  it 
has  had  him."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Well,  it 
will  hold  on  to  him  until  he,  that  is  we,  wear  it  out.  That 
is  what  we  will  have  to  do  now,  wear  it  out ;  not  let  the 
fever  wear  us  out,  eh  "  he  went  on,  the  cunning  doctor, 
putting  the  patient  out  of  the  question. 

"  Oh,  if  that  is  all,"  she  answered  joyfully,  the  expres 
sion  of  her  face  changing  at  once,  "  it  will  never  wear  me 
out !  It  will  never  wear  any  of  us  out !  "  She  changed 
the  form  of  her  assertion  because  she  saw  the  children 
peeping  from  the  other  room,  listening  to  the  doctor's 
verdict.  They  shook  their  heads  also  and  smiled  con 
temptuously  at  the  fever.  "  It  will  never  wear  me  out," 
each  one  seemed  to  be  declaring. 

And  then  as  always  happens  in  periods  of  serious 
illness  to  the  head  of  a  family,  a  curtain,  as  it  were,  fell 
around  the  household,  shutting  it  in  to  itself,  shutting 
out  all  else;  its  life  moving  along  whispering  and  on 
tiptoe  so  easily  that  the  hours  and  their  regular  habits 
slipped  by  unnoticed ;  the  days  and  nights  succeeding  one 
another  as  unobtrusively  as  the  ticking  of  a  clock. 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR 

ALWAYS  in  the  morning  when  the  fever  went  down,  the 
sick  man's  mind  would  clear.  He  would  call  for  his 
coffee  and  forgetting  his  illness  would  struggle  to  get 
up,  dress,  and  go  to  his  office :  "  I  have  work  to  do,"  he 
would  say,  "  I  have  a  brief  to  write."  But  always  he  fell 
back  to  his  pillow  and  after  a  moment  would  be  rising 
again,  to  fall  back  once  more.  Passing  his  hand  over 
his  forehead  and  frowning  unconsciously :  "  I  must  go 
to  the  office,"  he  would  repeat  to  his  wife. 

"It  is  early  yet,  rest  a  little  while  longer,"  she  would 
answer,  pretending  to  be  putting  his  cuff  buttons  in  his 
cuffs,  while  he  would  look  at  her  with  a  long  gaze,  watch 
ing  her  movements  and  drawing  confidence  from  them. 

As  the  day  wore  on  and  he  saw  himself  that  he  could 
not  get  up :  "  Tomorrow,  tomorrow,"  would  be  her 
answer  to  the  mute  inquiry  of  his  eyes.  Day  after  day, 
she  repeated  her  confident :  "  Tomorrow,  tomorrow." 

When  he  could  not  see  her  and  thought  she  had  left 
the  room  he  would  shake  his  head  and  murmur  "  Too 
bad,  too  bad,"  and  she  could  see  him  going  in  his  mind 
over  his  business,  noting  points  on  his  finger  until  she 
would  draw  his  attention  from  it.  She  could  always 
manage  to  do  this  by  talking  about  the  children  until  he 
would  take  the  pilot  wheel  again  in  his  hand  as  she  knew 
he  would  and  tell  her  what  he  expected  to  do  in  the  way 
of  larger  plans  for  them,  while  pushing  them  more  and 

281 


282      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

more  in  their  studies,  always  reminding  her  to  tell  them 
to  bring  their  books  to  his  bed  that  night  so  that  he 
could  teach  them  there  and  make  them  read  aloud  to 
him  as  usual.  He  wanted  them  to  finish  Gibbon  by 
Autumn.  And  he  would  tell  of  the  other  books  that  he 
intended  to  make  them  read.  There  was  a  second-hand 
Motley  he  never  tired  of  talking  about.  It  was  being 
held  for  him  by  the  shopman. 

"  A  wonderful  bargain ! "  his  voice  sounded  tri 
umphant  about  it,  as  fine  a  bargain  as  the  Shakespeare 
he  had  bought,  which  was  perfect  except  for  the  binding. 
The  boys  must  read  Motley  next.  They  must  learn  to 
appreciate  the  character  of  William  the  Silent.  Then 
he  would  ramble  on  about  William  the  Silent  until  he 
remembered  something  else — the  garden  perhaps.  She 
must  see  that  they  worked  in  the  garden,  they  must  not 
neglect  it.  A  day's  work  lost  in  the  season  was  hard  to 
replace  and  he  would  tell  her  minutely  just  what  beds 
he  was  preparing  for  just  what  seeds. 

Eagerly  he  took  what  was  prescribed  for  him  and 
always  with  the  words :  "  I  must  get  up  tomorrow  and 
go  to  work.  It  is  only  a  fever  and  we  know  what  fevers 
are." 

There  was  no  danger  of  the  boys  not  studying  or  not 
working  in  the  garden.  The  thought  that  he  was  ill  and 
that  all  they  could  do  to  help  him  was  to  study  and  to 
work  in  the  garden,  effected  more  in  making  Latin  trans 
lations  clear  and  Greek  verbs  endurable,  than  his  presence 
had  ever  done.  The  quieter  the  house  grew,  the  more 
settled  in  its  routine  of  illness  through  the  days  and 
then  the  passing  weeks  (for  if  the  fever  was  as  far  as 
ever  from  wearing  them  out,  they  seemed  no  nearer  to 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  283 

wearing  it  out),  the  harder  the  boys  pored  over  their 
books  and  worked  in  the  garden ;  Cribiche  with  them. 

Every  night  he  would  take  his  place  at  the  table  and 
study  as  he  too  had  never  studied  before;  raising  his 
swarthy  face  from  slate  or  book  only  to  give  a  look  at 
the  chair  where  the  teacher  should  have  been  sitting  and 
turning  it  again  more  doggedly  than  ever  to  his  lesson. 
As  he  studied,  so,  too,  he  worked  in  the  garden  with  the 
boys.  Potatoes,  beans,  carrots,  turnips,  spinach — if  ever 
they  were  offered  to  heaven  in  propitiation  for  past 
laziness  or  petition  for  present  favor,  they  were  in  those 
long  Summer  afternoons  by  the  three  boys  as  the  sweat 
rolled  from  their  faces  and  soaked  through  their  shirts. 

The  little  girls  were  not  behind  them,  although  being 
little  girls  they  had  no  need  to  offer  propitiation  for 
the  past.  Nevertheless  they  worked  as  if  they  had; 
worked  indeed  like  grown  women  and  even  harder  in 
their  ignorant  zeal  and  passionate  determination  to  do 
their  part  toward  the  cure  of  their  father.  No  studies 
for  them!  No  books,  no  reading  aloud,  no  going  to 
school.  When  had  women  time  for  such  things  while 
there  was  illness  in  the  family  ?  They  took  no  more  time 
for  them  than  their  mother  did.  They  kept  themselves 
awake  at  night,  thinking  what  they  would  do  the  next 
morning.  And  often  their  impatience  to  be  up  and  about 
what  they  had  thought  of,  and  their  fear  of  being  late, 
would  make  them  mistake  the  hour;  and  slipping  easily 
from  their  beds  so  that  their  mother  in  the  next  room 
could  not  hear  them,  they  would  run  across  the  yard,  still 
in  the  darkness  of  night,  to  the  kitchen  to  light  the  fire 
in  the  stove  and  drip  coffee  and  boil  hominy  through  the 
slow  gray  hours  to  daylight — just  as  their  mother  would 


284     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

have  done,  as  doubtless  she  had  done  many  and  many 
a  time,  before  any  one  else  in  the  house  was  awake. 
More  and  more  did  they  stretch  their  little  steps  to 
follow  in  the  tracks  of  a  grown  woman's  duties.  More 
and  more  their  little  thoughts  tried  to  fill  the  measure 
of  hers.  For  there  were  always  others  besides  the  family 
to  be  cared  for — the  church  door  swung  not  more  easily 
open  to  the  pious  than  their  rickety  old  backyard  gate 
to  the  wretched.  Always  there  was  some  poor  woman 
creeping  through  for  a  dose  of  medicine  or  bit  of  linen 
rag  to  put  on  a  sore ;  some  thin,  miserable  child,  begging 
something  for  a  sick  mother  or  one  well  known  to 
mendicancy — the  blind  old  cripple  Zenor,  surnamed  the 
Voudou,  on  account  of  the  malific  charms  that  his  ugli 
ness  and  deformity  had  gained  him  the  credit  of  work 
ing;  and  although  not  a  mendicant  every  day,  Jerry 
would  slink  through  the  gate  to  sit  silent  and  cowed  on 
the  kitchen  steps ;  never  asking  for  anything,  but  as  grate 
ful  as  a  hungry  dog  for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  a  kind 
word.  He  worked  no  more  now  and  was  ashamed  to 
let  his  master  know  it,  but  not  his  mistress. 

Indeed,  their  mother  was  so  afraid  that  they  would 
not  know  what  to  do;  that  some  one  would  come  and 
go  away  disappointed,  (no  one  knew  better  than  she 
what  it  was  to  go  somewhere  in  hope  and  return  dis 
appointed)  that  she  was  ever  slipping  from  the  sick 
room  out  to  the  gallery  to  warn  them  against  it;  and 
ever  remembering  something  else.  Ah,  at  that  time, 
every  want,  every  need  was  important  to  her ;  all  suffer 
ing  consecrated.  She  dared  not  let  one  prayer  to  her  go 
unanswered.  No!  No!  Thus  one  day,  the  little  girls 
were  called  in  haste  to  the  gallery:  "The  poor,  sick 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  285 

negroes,"  she  whispered  hurriedly  in  a  kind  of  panic. 
"  I  forgot  them !  They  used  to  come  every  day,  you  will 
hear  them  outside  the  window  .  .  .  give  them  something 
to  eat,  anything — scraps,  and  some  coffee.  I  used  to 
save  it  for  them  .  .  .  drip  over  the  old  grounds.  .  .  . 
They  are  just  out  of  the  hospital  .  .  .  they  have 
been  ill  too."  The  tears  started  into  her  eyes,  and 
her  lips  trembled,  for  all  her  courage,  at  the  word, 
the  sad  word,  ill.  "  But  they  must  not  come  into  the 
yard." 

So  the  little  girls  listened  for  them  and  the  day  never 
passed  that  they  did  not  hear  the  shuffling  steps  in  the 
street  stop  under  the  kitchen  window  and  the  hoarse 
whisper :  "  Mistress,  Fse  here !  Mistress,  won't  you  give 
a  poor  nigger  something  to  eat?  For  God's  sake,  Mis 
tress,  I'm  that  hungry.  ..."  And  looking  out  of  the 
window  they  would  see  a  trembling  negro  with  ashen 
face,  still  shivering  from  fever,  or  freshly  scarred  from 
smallpox. 

"  Here !  Here ! "  they  would  respond,  eagerly  stretch 
ing  their  hands  out  of  the  window,  as  full  of  pity  for  the 
poor  wretches — most  of  them  boys — as  their  mother  had 
been. 

"  Thank  you,  little  Mistress !  God  bless  you,  little  Mis 
tress  ! "  Some  of  them  would  cry  like  children  from 
weakness  as  the  little  girls  had  seen  negro  men  do  on  the 
plantation  when  they  were  weak  and  miserable. 

Although  they  had  always  shrunk  from  the  sight  of 
negroes  in  uniform,  and  had  turned  their  face  away 
from  them  in  passing,  according  to  the  command  of 
their  father,  they  did  not  now.  Nor  were  they  afraid 
of  their  diseases,  also  according  to  the  command  of  their 


286      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

father,  who,  as  much  as  his  little  daughters  hated 
Yankees,  hated  women  who  ran  away  from  contagion; 
"  as  if,"  he  said,  "  the  life  of  a  coward  were  ever  worth 
preserving."  But  in  their  sorrow  for  their  father  and 
their  wish  to  help  their  mother,  the  little  girls,  forgetting 
their  plantation  judgment  and  common  sense,  gave  more 
and  more;  and  in  consequence  the  file  of  convalescent 
negroes  outside  the  window  increased  daily;  their 
number,  however,  only  seemed  to  increase  the  pleasure 
of  the  charity. 

It  was  well  that  there  was  a  barrel  of  flour  in  the 
kitchen  and  a  sack  of  coffee;  the  barrel  of  flour  and  sack 
of  coffee  that  gave  their  father  so  much  comfort  in  his 
clear  moments  from  the  fever.  "  At  any  rate,"  he  would 
say  over  and  over  again  to  his  wife :  "  we  have  a  barrel 
of  flour  and  a  sack  of  coffee  in  the  house."  And  she 
would  tell  him  what  good  flour  it  was  and  what  fine 
coffee,  and  count  up  how  long  she  expected  them  to  last. 
He  would  smile,  well  pleased,  and  tell  of  his  good  luck 
that  a  grocer  should  pay  him  in  that  way  for  a  bit  of 
legal  advice. 

Little  by  little  the  habit  of  fever  overcame  the  habit 
of  health ;  the  effort  to  rise  in  the  morning  grew  fainter 
and  he  yielded  more  and  more  to  the  force  of  the  disease. 
Always  as  the  fever  mounted,  delirium  came  on  and  his 
mind  would  wander  forth  from  the  quiet  little  room  in 
St.  Medard  to  some  other  beautiful  parish  where  he 
seemed  to  see  all  the  bright  moments  of  his  past  life 
blooming  like  flowers  around  him.  Smiling  joyfully, 
he  would  stretch  out  his  hand  to  pluck  at  them  as  if  he 
were  still  a  youth,  and  they  the  flowers  his  dreams  of  the 
future.  Sometimes  the  flowers  seemed  to  be  bits  of 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  287 

poetry,  flashing  upon  his  eye  from  all  directions:  the 
blossoms  he  had  gathered  and  stored  in  his  memory 
when  he  was  young  enough  to  wander  in  the  bright 
fields  of  poetry.  Then  his  parched  lips  would  soften 
and  curve  and  he  would  repeat  verses  with  all  the  tender 
ness  and  sentiment  and  musical  expression  of  his  Spring 
time  freshness.  Sometimes,  trivial  incidents  from  the 
first  meeting  of  their  two  hearts — which  his  wife  with 
all  her  gift  of  memory  had  forgotten — would  slip  in 
between  two  lines  of  verse.  And  sometimes,  breaking 
in  his  weakness  through  the  close  reserve  of  his  heart 
a  still  more  secret  word  or  memory  would  seem  to 
tremble  on  his  lip,  when,  she  would  hastily  rise,  bend  over 
him  and  softly,  as  if  she  were  drawing  a  sheet  up  over 
a  sleeping  child,  hush  him ;  and  after  a  moment  of  silence 
he  would  be  again  in  the  land  of  his  enchantment.  .  .  . 
In  his  delirium  at  least  he  was  happy.  This — and  not 
what  it  might  have  been :  the  cruel  vagaries  of  the  bloody 
field  of  war,  the  carnage,  the  fury  of  the  onset,  the  curses 
of  defeat  or  the  anguish  of  fear,  the  painful  humiliations 
and  the  goading  phantoms  that  came  with  peace — this 
was  the  blessed  change  wrought  probably  by  St.  Medard 
and  his  flower-strewn  procession  and  the  pretty  play  of 
the  breeze  and  the  moon  on  the  gallery. 

Madame  Joachim,  sitting  close  to  the  head  of  the 
bed  with  the  mosquito  bar  veiling  her  from  the  patient, 
kept  her  eye  fixed  on  the  subtle,  treacherous  fever,  fol 
lowing  it  through  all  the  windings  of  its  serpent  trail. 
As  neither  she  nor  the  doctor  was  sure  when  it  began, 
how  could  they  tell  when  it  would  end,  or  even  where  it 
was  in  its  course,  or  which  one  of  the  fighters  was  wear 
ing  the  other  out?  They  could  see  the  one  on  the  bed; 


288      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

they  could  only  guess  at  the  other;  and  they  had  there 
fore  to  be  always  ready  to  meet  insidious  attack  with 
insidious  defense,  to  set  surprise  against  surprise,  am 
bush  against  ambush,  like  the  old  Indian  warriors  they 
were  on  the  warpath. 

But  almost  as  well  as  these  shrewd,  untiring  ones, 
did  the  sick  man's  care  and  anxieties — those  rugged 
friends — serve  him,  as  the  days  went  by  and  still  the 
fever  held  on.  They  worked  for  him  now,  as  they  had 
once  worked  against  him,  going  after  him,  pulling  at 
him  and,  like  faithful  dogs,  rousing  him  from  the 
lethargy  that  was  always  threatening  to  creep  over  him 
and  still  him  forever. 

"What  are  you  doing  for  money?"  he  would  ask 
with  a  start,  suddenly  opening  his  eyes.  Or  he  would 
stop  his  poetry  to  exclaim :  "  The  house  rent !  What 
day  of  the  month  is  it? "  Or  he  would  murmur  sadly: 
"  The  barrel  of  flour  and  the  sack  of  coffee  must  be 
giving  out  by  this  time." 

When  the  fever  went  down,  and  the  delirium  rolled 
away  like  a  cloud  from  his  brain,  he  would  bring  a 
clear  mind  to  bear  on  his  situation  and  discuss  it  with 
the  doctor  intelligently.  The  closer  he  was  pressed  by 
his  foe,  the  more  convincingly  he  would  reason  with 
the  doctor  about  it.  And  as  the  fever,  so  to  speak,  cap 
tured  his  convictions  one  by  one,  he  would  always  find 
some  other  defense  to  fall  back  upon,  just  as  he  had  done 
during  the  war.  But  pressed  closer  and  closer,  forced 
further  and  further  back  and  beaten  out  of  hope  after 
hope,  so  weak  that  there  seemed  but  one  more  stage 
of  weakness  to  traverse,  he  could  still  find  yet  another 
one  left  behind  him;  still  from  sources  invisible  to  his 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  289 

watchers  call  up  reinforcements  of  strength,  still  manage 
to  keep  up  the  fight. 

"  I  must  not  die,  Doctor,  I  cannot  afford  to  die,"  he 
would  whisper  eagerly  to  his  physician  when  his  wife 
was  out  of  sight  and  he  thought  out  of  the  room. 
"  But,"  confidentially,  "  I  cannot  hold  out  much  longer." 

"  The  fever  cannot  either,"  the  doctor  would  answer 
in  his  ever  high  good  humor.  "  You  think  he  has  un 
limited  resources  too,  like  the  Yankees,  eh  ?  He  is  worse 
off  than  you,  I  can  tell  you."  The  doctor  kept  his  private 
opinion  and  his  private  manner  so  well  to  himself  that 
Madame  Joachim  could  only  guide  her  judgment  by 
her  experience  of  him. 

"  He  is  not  as  good  a  doctor  as  he  thinks  he  is,"  she 
always  declared  when  questioned,  "  but  he  is  the  best 
doctor  for  fevers  in  the  city." 

"  Mariana,  you  will  wear  yourself  out,  always  sit 
ting  there  day  and  night  .  .  ."  he  would  whisper  to 
his  wife. 

If  it  were  night,  she  would  take  the  shade  off  the 
candle;  if  it  were  day,  open  a  window,  so  that  he  could 
see  her  smile  while  hearing  her  cheerful  voice.  Ah! 
the  fever  obtained  no  concessions  from  her  either  of 
courage,  hope,  or  strength !  Before  her  husband  she  was 
the  same  on  the  last  as  on  the  first  of  the  sixty  days  of 
the  campaign;  and  she  would  tell  him  the  news  of  the 
children,  the  garden,  the  chickens;  and,  she  would  laugh 
(" A'i,  Ail'1  would  exclaim  Madame  Joachim  to  herself 
hearing  her)  over  his  favorite  game  rooster — for  he  was 
so  prejudiced  in  favor  of  game  roosters  that  he  would 
never  have  any  other  kind  in  the  yard.  She  would 
talk  to  him  of  anything,  everything  as  if — as  if — they 


29o      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

were  still  sitting  side  by  side,  spying  away  together  at 
the  future,  meandering  on !  far  ahead  of  them. 

Across  the  backyard  in  their  domain,  the  kitchen,  the 
little  girls  held  their  outpost  against  the  fever;  held  it 
so  well  that  no  one  in  the  other  part  of  the  garrison  had 
need  to  think  of  them.  The  hot  days,  passed,  increasing 
their  fatigue,  diminishing  the  flour  and  coffee  and  ex 
hausting  other  provisions;  but  producing  no  effect  on 
their  supply  of  courage  and  determination.  However, 
the  help  of  those  who  help  themselves,  according  to  the 
proverb,  was  accorded  them.  After  a  while,  no  matter 
how  early  they  rose  in  the  morning,  nor  how  fast  they 
ran  across  the  dark  yard,  they  found  the  fire  lighted  in 
the  stove,  the  water  boiling,  hominy  simmering,  and  the 
biscuits  ready  for  baking.  Old  Aglone  was  always 
before  them.  How  could  the  poor  old  thing,  who  could 
barely  stand  on  her  feet,  manage  to  slip  out  of  her  own 
home  and  come  into  this  one  so  easily  that  no  one  heard 
her?  The  little  girls  asked  this  of  each  other  in  wonder 
every  day,  when  they,  for  their  part,  could  not  lift  a 
damper  from  the  stove  without  letting  it  fall,  nor  ap 
proach  a  pot  without  knocking  it  over  by  its  long  handle. 
And  every  day  when  they  fell  asleep  (and  strive  as  they 
did  against  it,  with  all  the  good  will  they  possessed,  they 
did  fall  asleep,  no  matter  where  they  were,  in  their  chairs 
or  sitting  on  the  gallery  steps,  every  day  about  eleven 
o'clock  when  the  boys  were  in  front  working  in  the 
garden,  and  the  yard  was  so  quiet  that  even  the  chickens 
seemed  to  be  keeping  still)  they  always  fell  asleep  with 
out  knowing  it,  and  always  awoke,  thinking  they  were  in 
bed  with  their  heads  on  their  soft  pillows,  opening  their 
eyes  and  closing  them  again,  dreamingly;  pouting  or 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  291 

smiling.  When  at  last  they  did  awake  they  would  always 
see  Papa  Pinseau,  sitting  in  a  chair  near  them  on  the 
gallery  with  Belle  at  his  feet,  looking  hard  into  the  upper 
branches  of  the  wild  cherry  tree,  however  much  he  may 
have  been  looking  at  them  before;  noting,  as  he  must 
have  done,  how  pale  and  thin  they  were  growing;  how 
tired — and  how  red  and  scarred  their  little  hands  were, 
for  when  did  they  ever  pour  hot  water  from  the  kettle 
without  scalding  them?  They  never  heard  him  come 
in  any  more  than  they  did  Aglone,  although  his  feet 
were  gouty  and  awkward  enough  to  betray  any  one. 
And  they  never  heard  him  tiptoeing  about  the  kitchen, 
slily  taking  little  bundles  wrapped  in  paper  from  his 
pockets  and  slipping  them  into  jars  (Belle  following  him 
sedately) ;  peeping  into  the  soup  pot,  and  lifting  the 
cover  from  the  daube;  and  sitting  down  afterward  and 
flipping  away  the  flies  and  mosquitoes  from  the  children 
with  his  soft  bandanna  handkerchief.  Poor  Papa 
Pinseau!  As  he  watched  the  children  of  Talbot  as 
suredly,  he  must  have  thought  of  the  past  and  of  his 
old  political  campaign ;  of  his  farcical  oratorical  attempts 
against  Talbot,  and  of  Talbot's  really  eloquent  outbursts 
at  every  mention  of  Pinseau's  frivolous  name — for  no 
one  could  deny  that  Talbot  was  an  orator  at  least  when 
expressing  contempt  and  indignation.  And  there  was 
the  eloquent,  contemptuous  Talbot  in  there  fighting  for 
his  life  with  the  fever;  and  he,  the  frivolous  Pinseau, 
out  here  on  his  kitchen  gallery  watching  his  children  and 
minding  his  pots!  No  wonder  that  his  humorous  smile 
came  and  went  over  his  lips ! 

When,  at  last,  the  little  girls  would  yawn  and  stretch 
themselves  awake,   vowing   that   they  had   never   been 


292      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

asleep  at  all  but  awake  the  whole  time  and  knew  when 
he  came  in,  he  would  fall  in  with  their  humor,  and  divert 
them  so  well  that  they  would  forget  everything  else  but 
himself — just  like  the  ladies  of  old,  whom  he  had 
diverted.  It  must  be  conceded  that  the  eloquent  Talbot, 
however  superior  he  may  have  been  in  other  things, 
could  not  be  compared  with  the  frivolous  Pinseau,  in 
the  ability  to  please  the  ladies,  old  or  young.  The  more 
the  little  girls  laughed,  the  more  gain  did  he  seem  to 
think  it ;  and  the  closer  he  saw  the  black  cloud  descending 
upon  the  house  across  the  yard,  the  more  he  strove  to 
turn,  and  the  better  he  succeeded  in  turning,  the  eyes 
of  the  little  girls  from  it.  And  then  he  would  go  into  the 
kitchen  with  them  (Belle  lending  herself  too,  to  the 
humor  of  the  situation)  and  looking  around,  they  would 
find  the  little  bundles  he  had  hidden  away  and  would 
open  them.  Then  he,  with  all  the  care  and  delicacy  in 
the  world,  would  show  exactly  how  to  cook  the  contents 
of  the  bundles,  touching  the  seasonings  as  lightly  as  if 
they  were  jewels;  the  little  girls  meanwhile  listening  and 
watching  with  keen  interest  and  enthusiastic  appreciation. 
Gourmets  are  always  the  best  of  cooks  and  therefore  the 
best  teachers  of  cooks. 

If  the  haughty  Talbot  could  have  seen  him  then! 
And  his  daughters  in  such  society! 

When  Papa  Pinseau  had  hobbled  away;  as  surely  as 
the  afternoon  came,  Polly's  friend,  the  old  Kentucky 
gentleman  would  make  his  appearance  in  the  street, 
walking  leisurely  along,  switching  the  weeds  with  his 
cane,  carrying  a  great  paper  bag,  well  filled,  in  his  hand. 
He  would  push  open  the  back  gate  as  the  mendicants  did, 
and  entering,  take  the  seat  on  the  gallery  that  Papa 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  293 

Pinseau  had  just  left.  Then  the  busy  little  girls  would 
leave  him  to  distribute  their  charity  out  of  the  kitchen 
window  to  the  negro  soldiers,  and  he  would  hear  the 
latters'  soft  voices  whining  out: 

"For  God's  sake,  little  Miss!" 

"  Ain't  you  got  somethin'  for  a  poor  hungry  nigger, 
little  Miss?" 

"  I'se  starvin',  little  Miss !  " 

"  Dey  most  killed  me  in  horspital,  little  Miss ! " 

He  would  throw  back  his  head  and  laugh  silently  to 
himself,  showing  his  white  teeth  behind  his  white  beard 
and  mustache,  murmuring :  "  the  rascals,  the  rascals," 
with  a  true  Kentuckian's  enjoyment  of  a  joke.  He 
seemed  indeed  so  amused  that  smiles  hovered  about 
his  lips  a  long  time  afterward.  Like  Monsieur  Pinseau, 
he  must  also  have  had  a  comical  past  to  look  back 
upon. 

When  the  little  girls  came  back  to  their  places,  they 
would  all  talk  about  the  chickens.  He  seemed  to  be  as 
fond  of  game  chickens  as  their  Papa,  and  could  be  as 
much  entertained  as  he  by  the  airs  of  an  old  rooster  or 
the  antics  of  a  young  one.  And  looking  at  the  chickens, 
he  would  relate  to  them  all  the  circumstances  of  the  vari 
ous  exciting  chicken  fights  of  his  youth  in  Kentucky ;  and 
tell  them  further  all  about  the  most  beautiful  country 
that  God  had  ever  created :  its  fine  horses,  its  blue  grass, 
and  its  women,  known  as  the  most  famous  belles  in  all 
the  world,  he  told  them.  The  little  girls — who  had  never 
heard  of  such  supremely  lovely  women  in  their  little 
lives  and  could  never  hear  enough  about  them — could, 
as  they  listened,  again  forget  the  black  cloud  over  the 
house  across  the  yard.  As  he  described  the  marvelous 


294      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

complexions  of  these  famous  belles  of  his  youth,  such  as 
no  other  women  in  the  world  had,  and  their  hands — like 
the  hands  of  goddesses,  he  said — he  would  pull  out  of  his 
pocket  a  cake  of  sweet  soap,  a  pot  of  cold  cream,  or  a 
bottle  of  eau  de  Cologne,  and  show  the  little  girls  (with 
the  taste  and  delicacy  that  Monsieur  Pinseau  had  ex 
hibited  over  cooking)  how  to  make  their  hands  like  the 
hands  of  the  Kentucky  belles.  And  so  the  little  girls 
would  wash  and  rub  and  cream  their  hands  diligently 
under  his  supervision,  and  wipe  them  on  the  fine  large 
linen  handkerchiefs  he  brought  fresh  every  day  and 
always  forgot  to  take  away  with  him;  and  they  would 
eat  the  fruit  out  of  his  great  bag  every  afternoon — every 
afternoon;  they  needed  no  better  entertainment.  And 
Polly  the  chatterbox,  who  loved  talking  even  more  than 
she  did  beauty,  would  relate  to  him  all  the  happenings 
of  the  little  house;  tell  him,  in  order  to  keep  talking, 
anything,  everything;  (so  different  from  the  wise  little 
Cicely!)  never  heeding  what  she  said,  for  she  could  no 
more  look  where  she  was  going  in  her  talking  than  in  her 
walking.  And  so  every  day  he  heard  the  same  things: 
Madame  Joachim;  Papa  Pinseau  and  his  cooking  and 
the  little  bundles;  old  Aglone.  And  every  day,  without 
fail,  he  heard  the  story  of  the  barrel  of  flour  and  sack 
of  coffee — how  the  grocer  had  given  them  in  payment 
for  legal  advice,  and  how  her  Papa  talked  about  them  in 
his  illness  and  how  they  made  him  believe  there  was 
plenty  left,  as  there  would  have  been  if  they  hadn't  given 
so  much  to  the  negro  soldiers,  who  came  begging  more 
and  more  because  more  and  more  of  them  fell  sick,  and 
the  Yankees  treated  them  worse  and  worse.  ...  Ah! 
he  was  well  informed  about  the  negroes  and  their  ill 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  295 

treatment  at  the  hands  of  their  barracks  masters !  This 
part  of  the  conversation  must  inevitably  have  come 
to  an  end  had  not  another  barrel  of  flour  and  another 
sack  of  coffee  been  received  just  in  the  nick  of  time :  a 
whole  barrel  and  a  whole  sack,  not  half  ones  as  before. 
Nobody  could  have  enjoyed  their  surprise  with  them 
more  than  the  old  gentleman,  nor  rejoiced  more  at  their 
relief  from  the  consequences  of  their  charity.  He,  too, 
thought  it  must  be  the  good  grocer  who  sent  them,  and 
praised  him  for  it. 

When  the  time  came  for  him  to  leave,  he  turned  from 
the  back  gate  into  a  little  side  lane  instead  of  proceeding 
by  the  street,  and  so  reached  the  Levee.  As  he  walked 
along  now,  he  did  not  flip  at  the  weeds  with  his  cane, 
and  there  was  no  smile  of  humorous  anticipation  on  his 
lips.  He  bent  his  head  reflectively,  and  clasped  his  hands 
over  his  cane  behind  his  back,  the  thoughts  that  had 
been  amusing  him  fading  from  his  face.  Abstractedly 
he  answered  the  greeting  of  the  officers  on  the  Levee, 
and,  turning  into  the  donjon-like  portals  of  the  barracks, 
barely  noticed  the  sentinels  presenting  arms  to  him.  Not 
so  did  he  leave  it.  To  be  the  Colonel  in  command  of  the 
barracks  and  a  Kentuckian  seemed  always  a  joke  to  him 
in  the  morning,  when  like  a  young  man  he  would  start 
out  fresh  for  the  continuation  of  his  boyish  fun  in  the 
mystification  of  the  little  girls:  his  little  blossom  of 
romance  after  the  hard  war.  (Kentuckians  can  never 
grow  old,  or  rather  even  in  old  age,  never  cease  to  be 
young;  and  even  in  old  age,  can  no  more  live  without 
romance  than  without  jokes).  His  romance!  It  was 
his  romance  that  made  him  sad  now  and  that  made  that 
radiant  lady  Victory  who  had  crowned  the  banner  he  had 


296     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

fought  under  seem  now,  as  he  looked  upon  her,  to  be 
weeping. 

All  the  while  in  the  house  the  patient  was  making  his 
struggle  for  life,  his  last  struggle  as  it  began  to  appear  to 
him. 

"  I  cannot  hold  out  much  longer,"  he  would  whisper 
wistfully  to  the  doctor  who  was  constantly  running  in 
to  see  him,  like  a  commander  constantly  running  upon 
the  ramparts  to  watch  the  foe. 

"  Hold  out  to  the  end — and  then  still  hold  out ;  that 
is  all  you  have  to  do."  The  graver  the  situation,  the 
more  jocular  the  doctor  became. 

"  I  am  doing — my  best — but — my — strength — is  going 
— fast."  He  seemed  hardly  to  have  the  breath  to  say  it. 

"  No  stronghold  in  history,"  said  the  doctor  majesti 
cally,  as  if  he  had  the  whole  of  history  at  his  finger  ends, 
"  would  ever  have  been  taken  by  the  enemy  if  it  had 
held  out  only  a  little  longer.  You,  who  know  history, 
know  that." 

And  still  he  fell  every  day  into  delirium;  still  he 
came  out  to  meet  his  anxieties  and  responsibilities;  still 
he  measured  his  chances  in  the  struggle;  still  he  cal 
culated;  just  as  he  had  done  when  the  Confederacy  was 
making  its  last  stand. 

"  Where  are  the  boys?  "  he  asked  suddenly  one  after 
noon. 

"  Ah,  he  has  noticed  that  I  have  kept  the  children 
out  of  the  room,"  his  wife  said  exultantly  to  herself. 
"  I  knew  it,  the  fever  was  weakening  only  the  body !  " 
And  as  if  she  had  heard  a  piece  of  good  news,  she  hurried 
out  and  called  the  boys  in. 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  297 

They  were  always  within  call  now,  never  leaving  the 
garden  except  to  go  to  their  books  on  the  gallery.  They 
never  even  undressed  when  they  went  to  bed,  but  threw 
themselves  down  in  their  clothes  in  case  they  were 
wanted;  always  determined  to  keep  awake,  but  always, 
poor  boys,  going  to  sleep. 

They  snatched  up  their  books  and  hastened  at  the  call, 
stumbling  over  their  own  feet  and  dropping  one  book 
after  the  other  from  their  trembling  hands.  Their 
mother  stood  at  the  head  of  the  bed,  holding  the  mosquito 
netting  in  her  hands  as  a  screen,  her  eyes  fixed  upon 
them,  her  head  firm  and  erect.  They  needed  her  look 
and  gesture;  for  their  knees  trembled  as  much  as  their 
hands  when  they  reached  the  bed.  She  prompting  them, 
they  opened  a  book,  turned  the  leaves,  and  showed  the 
marks  of  their  lessons;  then  clearing  their  voices,  their 
words  running  together  from  nervousness,  they  told 
how  fast  they  were  getting  through  Gibbon,  and,  poor 
boys!  how  much  interested  they  were  in  it.  At  that 
moment  indeed,  trying  to  keep  back  their  tears  at  the 
sight  of  their  father — emaciated,  weak,  strange,  and 
changed  beyond  all  recognition — they  would  have  sworn 
devotion  to  any  book ;  even  to  that  secret  horror  of  their 
minds  the  Bible,  their  Sunday  imposition. 

"  Study/'  Their  father's  whisper,  so  low  and  faint, 
frightened  them  as  much  as  his  appearance.  "  Work.'* 
Then  with  a  great  effort  he  repeated  the  word: 
"  Work."  His  eyes  closed.  After  a  pause  that  seemed 
never-ending,  he  opened  them,  and  a  glance  of  his  old 
warmth  lighted  them,  as,  looking  beyond  his  sons  toward 
the  door,  he  whispered :  "  Cribiche." 

It  was  Cribiche,  barefooted  as  usual,  and  dirty;  his 


298      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

blue  colonnade  trousers  hanging  by  one  suspender,  his 
shirt  unbuttoned.  Cribiche  did  not  go  to  his  bed  at 
all  of  nights.  He  lay  on  the  gallery  outside,  close  to  the 
window  of  the  sick  room,  where,  like  a  sleeping  watch 
dog,  he  could  hear  every  movement  within.  He  had 
more  nerve  than  the  sons  and  therefore  could  come  for 
ward  steadily.  He  spoke  in  a  voice  that  the  wife  herself 
might  have  envied,  laying  by  the  sick  one's  hands  some 
birds  he  had  killed  for  him.  Every  day  he  had  managed 
to  kill  some  and  bring  them. 

"Study— work "     The   feeble  lips  tried  to  add 

something  else  as  he  looked  at  the  three,  but  he  could  only 
murmur  indistinctly,  and  the  eyelids  dropped  again  over 
the  struggling  eyes.  The  boys  started  to  withdraw,  but 
by  some  divine  inspiration  they  were  enabled  to  under 
stand  the  meaning  of  their  mother's  eyes,  her  lips,  the 
movement  of  her  head.  They  put  the  question  that  she, 
with  divine  intuition,  had  guessed. 

"  Is  there  anything  we  can  do  for  you,  Father?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  came  the  eager  answer,  dissipating  the 
lethargy  that  was  creeping  over  him.  "  Tommy  Cook — 
Tommy  Cook." 

They  started  as  they  were,  without  hats,  without  car 
fare,  but  the  latter  made  no  difference;  they  could  run 
faster  than  the  mule  car  could  travel.  They  ran  all  the 
long  way  into  the  city,  looking  neither  to  the  right  nor 
to  the  left,  but  straight  ahead,  with  their  message  before 
their  eyes. 

Pere  Phileas  was  working  in  his  garden.  There  was 
always  as  much  work  for  him  to  do  in  it  as  in  the  parish ; 
the  devil  being  as  busy  with  his  tares  in  the  one  as  in 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  299 

the  other,  and  the  rich  soil  growing  the  one,  as  prolifically 
as  the  rich  Gascon  nature  the  other.  It  is  not  surprising 
that  his  garden  often  appeared  to  the  priest  like  a  parish, 
his  parish  like  a  garden;  and  that  he  pulled  up  weeds 
as  if  they  were  sins  and  tried  to  pull  up  sins  as  if  they 
were  weeds.  The  bright  afternoon  sun  shone  from  its 
blue  heavens,  benignantly  over  him,  shedding  its  warmth, 
impartially,  as  is  its  wont  over  the  good  and  the  bad  alike ; 
over  that  which  has  to  be  removed  for  the  welfare  of 
the  rest,  as  over  that  which  has  to  be  kept  for  the  welfare 
of  the  rest.  And  so  were  his  thoughts  doubtless  running 
along,  in  company  with  his  busy  hands,  when  his  arm 
was  pulled  violently.  "  Mon  Pere!  Mon  Pere!" 
Cribiche's  voice  and  hands  trembled  with  excitement, 
his  breath  came  in  gasps :  "  Mon  Pere,  pray  for  him ! 
Quick!  Quick!  pray  for  him!  The  priest  straightened 
himself  up,  and  put  his  hand  on  the  small  of  his  back, 
which  was  where  the  weeds  at  least  hurt  him  most. 

Cribiche  pulled  at  his  arm  again,  and  repeated  his 
hurried :  "  Pray  for  him !  Pray  for  him,  quick !  "  And 
he  looked  across  the  street  at  the  cottage  of  the 
Americans,  so  quiet  and  peaceable  behind  its  trees.  "  He 
will  die — he  looks  like  he  will  die !  " 

The  priest  turned  as  if  to  go  to  his  work  again,  saying 
calmly : 

'  You  will  lose  a  good  friend,  my  son." 

"  But,"  replied  the  boy  eagerly,  "  if  you  pray  for  him, 
Mon  Pere,  if  you  pray  for  him " 

The  priest  shook  his  head  thoughtfully :  "  Ah,  you 
remember  now  that  there  is  a  good  God  in  heaven !  But 
where  is  your  friend  the  devil?  Your  master  that  you 
serve  so  well  ?  Why  do  you  not  go  to  him  ? " 


300     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

Cribiche  looked  at  him  angrily :  "  You  pray  for  any 
body,  for  any  rascal  and  thief  and  .  .  ." 

The  priest  interrupted  him :  "  Yes,  the  rascal,  the  thief, 
the  good-for-nothing  ...  I  pray  for  them !  " 

"  Mon  Pere,  if  you  saw  him,  you  would  pray  for 
him."  Cribiche's  trembling  lips  related  what  had  just 
taken  place ;  the  priest,  listened  willingly ;  he  liked  to  hear 
any  version  of  what  was  going  on  about  him  in  the 
parish. 

"Why  do  you  not  pray  for  him  yourself,  my  son? 
When  you  want  something,  it  is  better  to  ask  for  it 
yourself." 

"Mon  Pere  ..." 

"If  you  want  your  good  friend  to  live — and  if  he 
dies,  I  do  not  know  what  will  become  of  you  but  the 
devil  knows — the  friend  that  you  love  so  much  .  .  ." 
added  the  priest  vindictively,  "  that  you  love  so  much 
and  work  for  so  hard  .  .  .  but,"  softening  his  voice :  "  if 
you  want  your  good  friend  to  live,  pray  for  him  your 
self." 

"  Mon  Pere,"  cried  Cribiche  desperately :  "  They  will 
listen  to  you,  they  won't  listen  to  me !  " 

"  And  why,"  asked  the  priest  softly,  very  softly,  "  why 
will  they  not  listen  to  you?  " 

Cribiche  gave  a  wild  look  of  despair  at  the  bright  sky 
above,  where  dwelt  his  offended  God. 

"  Mon  Pere,  I  can't,  I  can't  ...  I  don't  know  any 
prayers." 

"  But  why,  my  son  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  any  prayers." 

"  And  why  do  you  not  know  any  prayers,  my  son  ?  " 

The  boy  leaned  hopelessly  against  the  arm  he  had 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  301 

shaken,  and  sobbed,  as  if  he  had  been  born  a  child  who 
could  afford  to  cry  and  had  been  granted  a  parent's 
bosom  to  cry  upon. 

"He  will  die.    He  will  die!" 

The  priest  had  never  seen  him  cry  like  a  child  before. 

"  That  is  as  God  wills,  my  son." 

He  put  his  arm  around  Cribiche's  shoulder,  and  bent 
his  head  over  him. 

"  My  son,  if  you  want  your  good  friend  to  live,  you 
must  pray  for  him  yourself." 

"  I  don't  know  any  prayers,"  came  the  answer  through 
sobs,  as  Cribiche  pressed  his  head  closer  against  the 
priest.  "  They  won't  listen  to  me,  they  will  listen  to  you. 
If  you  pray,  maybe  God,  maybe  God  ..." 

The  good  priest  had  reached  the  end  of  his  simple 
comedy.  "  My  child,"  he  said  in  a  different  tone,  laying 
his  hand  tenderly  on  the  bushy  black  head  of  Cribiche : 
"  Go  and  make  what  prayer  you  can.  When  they  see 
you  up  there "  (the  priest  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  blue 
above)  "  trying  to  pray,  they  may  be  sorry  for  you 
and  .  .  .  Go,  go,  you  will  find  out  what  to  pray  .  .  . 
God  knows  all,  my  child,  remember  that,  He  knows 
all  ...  And  when  he  sees  you  on  your  knees  praying, 
you,  his  poor  little  orphan,  who  knows?  Who 
knows?  .  .  .  Tell  Him  you  will  fulfil  your  duties  to 
Him.  You  will  go  to  confession;  you  will  make  your 
Communion;  you  will  not  neglect  the  church.  All  this 
for  love  of  the  good  friend  He  has  sent  you,  whose 
suffering  has  taught  you  in  your  grief  the  way  to  the 
One  who  alone  can  help  us  poor  mortals  in  our  struggle 
with  sorrow  and  death.  Tell  Him  " — the  father  was 
going  on  much  longer,  with  his  eyes  directed  above, 


302      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

when  he  was  recalled  by  seeing  the  black  eyes  of  Cribiche 
fixed  upon  him  and  his  lips,  his  impudent,  lawless  lips, 
repeating  the  words  after  him.  "  Go,  my  child,"  pushing 
him  gently,  "  the  prayers  of  a  child  are  always  listened 
to  and  God  may  grant  you  what  he  would  not  grant 
others.  Go,  and  when  I  come  in,  I  will  pray  too." 

Cribiche  ran  away  in  the  direction  of  the  church  as 
hastily  as  the  boys  were  running  in  the  direction  of  the 
city. 

Tommy  Cook  sat  alone  in  the  office.  He  had  it  all 
to  himself  once  more,  as  in  the  days  when  a  bloody  war 
separated  its  owner  from  it.  The  great  bookcases  with 
their  tightly  packed  shelves  of  calf-skin  volumes,  the 
heavy  mahogany  ar moire,  filled  with  the  tin  boxes  of 
litigation  as  he  called  it,  seemed  once  more  to  be  floating 
like  a  derelict  ship  upon  the  Gulf,  a  prize  for  the  nearest 
captor  at  hand.  The  Confederate  lawyers,  dropping  in 
day  after  day  to  ask  news  of  their  sick  friend,  grew  more 
and  more  polite  of  manner  to  Tommy  Cook,  more  and 
more  considerate  of  tone  to  him.  As  Tommy  Cook  saw, 
they  were  getting  ready  for  the  floating  prize.  The 
enterprising  among  them  did  not  limit  their  interest  to 
the  life  of  their  friend;  but  would  casually  extend  it 
to  the  eventuality  of  his  death;  glancing  at  the  armoire 
of  litigation ;  the  business  of  which  though  in  ruins,  like 
the  plantations  of  the  State,  would  revive  like  them  and 
flower  into  money  again  when  the  political  condition  of 
the  South  was  restored  to  its  proper  statu  quo,  as  they 
classically  expressed  their  domination  of  it.  That  was 
the  land  of  Canaan  toward  whose  possession  they  were 
fighting  their  way  with  all  the  ruse  and  artifice  of  ac- 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  303 

complished  politicians  added  to  the  determined  courage 
of  the  tried  warriors  they  were ;  stepping  over  the  bodies 
of  their  friends  and  comrades  who  fell  from  among  them 
by  the  way;  leaving  them  behind  as  they  had  learned  to 
leave  the  bodies  of  friends  behind,  on  the  other  battle 
fields.  But  only  their  bodies,  only  their  bodies,  as  Tommy 
Cook  observed  to  himself ;  not  the  business  that  the  dead 
man  might  have  in  his  pocket.  That  was  looked  after 
as  they  were  looking  after  their  friend  Talbot's  business, 
to  carry  it  along  with  them  into  the  land  of  Canaan. 
It  would  flower  there,  they  knew,  as  well  for  one  pos 
sessor  as  another. 

So  Tommy  Cook,  in  imagination,  saw  his  old  patron 
stepped  over  and  left  behind,  as  in  his  memory  many 
another  good  man  had  been.  After  a  season  of  cold, 
heat,  rain,  and  sunshine,  a  skeleton  of  a  name  would  be 
all  that  would  be  left  of  him.  In  a  little  while  that  too 
would  have  disappeared — and  all  the  work  that  he  had 
done  and  all  that  he  had  prepared  to  do,  all  his  accumu 
lation  of  study,  thought,  books,  and  papers,  would  serve 
the  ambition  and  fortune  of  another  whose  business  and 
interest  it  would  be  to  see  that  their  friend  Talbot  was 
well  and  surely  forgotten.  Tommy  Cook  had  learend 
the  modus  operandi  of  it,  as  he  called  the  process.  The 
place  he  occupied  was  the  best  possible  one  for  the 
picking-up  of  such  knowledge.  And  in  his  experience, 
as  in  that  of  others,  it  was  ever  the  best  man  who  was 
the  easiest  forgotten.  The  longest  remembered  were  the 
men  who  had  enriched  the  community  with  their  money, 
not  with  their  lives;  whose  lives  had  indeed  to  be  ran 
somed  from  the  contempt  of  posterity  by  their  money. 

As  he  sat  thus  in  the  office,  in  communion  with  him- 


3o4     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

self,  the  two  boys,  hot,  bareheaded,  dusty,  and  out  of 
breath,  ran  in  to  him  with  their  summons. 

Although  he  was  dressed  in  black  like  a  lawyer,  was 
clean  shaven  of  any  beard  he  might  have  had,  and  would 
have  been  taken,  by  any  one  who  did  not  know  him,  for 
a  respectable  young  professional — Tommy  Cook,  in  the 
eyes  of  the  house  he  entered,  was  still  only,  little  Tommy 
Cook,  the  errand  boy  of  the  office ;  one  who  sat  in  the  hall 
and  waited  for  answers  and  (being  white  and  in  a  menial 
position)  was  looked  on  with  disdain  by  the  negro  slave 
who  opened  the  door  to  his  polite  ring.  In  his  own  eyes 
too,  he  must  have  been  only  the  little  street  ragamuffin 
and  newspaper  boy  who  had  been  jerked  up  one  day 
from  his  dice  throwing  with  other  ragamuffins  on  the 
pavement  and  made  to  go  upstairs  to  the  office.  He 
must  have  been  still  only  that  in  his  own  eyes,  as  he 
entered  the  sick  room  and  saw  his  patron  on  the  bed 
sleeping,  and  as  he  sat  there  waiting  for  him  to  wake. 

"  As  if  any  one,"  the  poor  wife  thought,  "  could  wake 
from  such  a  still  white  sleep." 

What  would  Tommy  Cook  have  been  at  the  present 
moment  if  that  skeleton  hand  had  not  caught  him  up 
from  his  gambling  and  had  not  caned  him,  too,  when 
ever  he  was  caught  at  it  afterward?  What  would  he 
have  been  now  if  the  inexorable  will  of  that  corpselike 
head  had  not  forced  him  to  learn  his  letters ;  and  then  to 
write;  and  then  to  go  to  school?  His  patron  was  a 
young  lawyer  at  that  time,  just  admitted  to  the  bar.  He 
slept  in  a  room  adjoining  the  office.  And  Tommy,  who 
had  been  given  a  closet  adjoining  the  room,  would  wake 
up  at  night  and  see  him  many  a  time,  still  in  the  evening 
dress  of  dinner  or  ball,  sitting  at  the  office  table,  studying 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  305 

and  reading.  That  was  before  he  was  married.  Tommy 
had  known  him  longer  than  his  wife.  He  had  been 
picked  up  out  of  the  gutters  at  ten  and  he  was  now 
twenty-five.  Fifteen  years  he  had  been  living  under  this 
patron,  and  with  him ;  serving  him,  watching  him,  copy 
ing  him,  trying  to  please  him,  hunting  up  authorities 
for  him  as  soon  as  he  could  read,  taking  down  notes  for 
him  as  soon  as  he  could  write  distinctly,  learning  to  know 
his  affairs  even  better  than  he  knew  them  himself.  For 
Tommy  lived  closer  to  earth  and  had  a  mind  that  could 
creep  into  little  business  holes  and  places  that  the  mind 
of  a  gentleman  could  not  condescend  to. 

As  he  sat  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  he  looked  indeed 
more  like  the  poor  little  fellow  he  had  been  than  the 
lawyer  he  had  become;  for  he  had  never  outgrown  his 
thin,  starved  face,  and  the  small  sad,  bright  eyes  that 
had  first  attracted  the  attention  of  the  handsome  young 
lawyer  passing  by  on  the  sidewalk.  His  black  hair  was 
plastered  down  now  with  pomatum  instead  of  hanging 
over  his  eyes,  and  his  face  was  clean  and  white;  that, 
with  his  clothes,  made  the  only  difference,  after  all,  in 
his  appearance.  He  sat  crouched  down  in  his  chair, 
with  his  narrow  shoulders  bent,  just  as  he  used  to  sit  in 
the  hall  waiting  for  answers. 

From  under  his  half-closed  lids  the  eyes  of  the  sick 
man  looked  at  him,  with  a  soft,  gentle,  fixed  gaze,  as  at 
something  in  a  dream;  one  of  the  dreams  of  his  long, 
long  sleep. 

"  Hello,  Tommy,  is  that  you?  " 

The  words  slipped  in  the  faintest  breath  of  a  whisper 
through  the  immovable  lips. 

Tommy  gave  a  start  at  the  sound  of  the  old  familiar 


306     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

greeting,  faint  though  it  was,  and  uttered  as  in  a  dream. 
But  it  was  his  patron's  old  familiar  greeting  and  no 
one  else's;  the  greeting  of  the  days  when  his  patron  was 
a  young  lawyer  and  lived  in  the  office  room. 

He  came  around  to  the  side  of  the  bed. 

''  Yes,  Sir,"  he  answered  as  he  used  to  do,  when  he 
stood  cap  in  hand  at  the  office  table. 

"  Tommy,"  but  the  weak  voice  gave  out  and  only  a 
sigh  followed. 

"  Yes,  Sir." 

By  a  great  effort,  the  weak  lids  were  raised  and  the 
anxious  eyes  looked  slowly  around  the  room;  seeing  no 
one  but  Tommy :  "  Tommy,"  he  whispered.  Tommy 
bent  over  him.  "  I  cannot  hold  out  much  longer — my 
strength  is  almost  gone."  The  words  fell  slowly,  with 
long  pauses  separating  them,  but  the  will  behind  them 
forced  them  out.  "  Stay  here  in  the  house,  until " 

"Yes,  Sir." 

How  well  Tommy  knew  his  patron!  His  voice  was 
as  clear  and  steady  as  if  he  were  being  sent  to  court  on 
an  errand.  But  he  bent  still  closer  over  the  thin  white 
face  and  watched  the  closed  eyes.  The  lids  slowly 
struggled  open  again  and  the  great  eyes  looked  into 
Tommy's  bright  eyes  above. 

"  My  library,"  he  sighed — a  long  trembling  sigh  that 
cut  the  heart  of  one  to  hear  it.  "  Sell  it — at  once — to 

pay — give  the  money  to — my  wife.  My  business " 

another  long  sigh. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  some  of  your  friends,  Sir?  " 

"  No,  no,"  he  tried  to  shake  his  head. 

Ah,  Tommy !  Where  would  you  go  to  find  a  friend  for 
him  ?  One  that  he  could  trust  ? 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  307 

"  My  family— food— food." 

The  words  were  inarticulate.  He  felt  them  to  be  so, 
for  he  opened  his  eyes  and  fixed  them  upon  Tommy  with 
a  look  so  piercing  that  the  boy  fell  upon  his  knees  and 
putting  his  ugly  little  face  close  to  the  god-like  head 
on  the  pillow  said  steadily :  "  I  will  attend  to  everything, 
Sir.  I  will  look  after  the  office  and  the  business  as  I 
looked  after  them  when  you  were  in  the  war,  when  I 
was  keeping  them  for  you  against  your  coming  back. 
I  will  keep  them  for  you,  just  the  same  now,  Sir,  as  if 
you  were  coming  back.  And  if  you  were  to  come  back, 
Sir,  you  would  find  me  there,  Sir,  just  as  you  found  me 
before  taking  care  of  your  office,  looking  after  your 
interests  for  you  until  you  came  back." 

Looking  at  the  thin  face  and  closed  eyes  under 
him,  Tommy  ventured  yet  further,  whispering  close 
into  the  ear  on  the  pillow !  "  You  know,  Sir,  there 
is  no  one  on  this  earth  owes  as  much  to  you  as  I  do; 
there  is  no  one  would  work  for  you  as  I  would.  You 
know  that  and  you  know  me,  don't  you,  Sir  ?  You  ought 
to  know  me,  Sir.  You  picked  me  up  out  of  the  gutter, 
and  if  there  is  any  good  in  me  you  put  in  there,  and  if 
you  cannot  trust  me  now,  Sir,  you  had  better  have  left 
me  a  dog  in  the  gutter.  And  I  wish  to  God  you  had  left 
me  a  dog  in  the  gutter  if  you  cannot  trust  me  now." 

He  said  it  simply.  The  ragamuffin  who  had  learned 
so  much  about  life  had  never  learned  the  fine  language 
of  sentiment.  He  who  could  mimic  so  inimitably  could 
not  mimic  that.  He  had  shed  no  tears  since  his  drunken 
mother  had  been  taken  by  death  from  beating  him; 
but  they  came  to  his  eyes  now.  As  he  talked,  he  wiped 
them  away  with  his  finger.  Like  his  patron,  he  thought 


308      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

no  one  was  in  the  room ;  no  one,  he  thought,  heard  him ; 
no  one  saw  him,  his  patron's  eyes  being  still  closed. 

It  was  true,  all  true.  If  he  could  not  trust  Tommy, 
whom  could  he  trust  ?  Since  he  had  picked  him  up  from 
the  gutter,  he  had  always  found  the  boy  sitting  in  some 
corner  of  the  office  whenever  he  entered  it :  a  thin,  puny, 
miserable  little  cripple  boy,  always  eager  to  do  something 
for  him.  When  indeed  had  Tommy  not  gladly  responded 
to  his  call  like  a  dog  to  a  whistle?  Cold,  rain,  hunger, 
fatigue — when  had  Tommy  ever  felt  them  if  his  patron 
required  a  service?  When  had  he  ever  asked  for  any 
thing  for  himself  ?  A  reward  ?  Between  them  there  had 
never  been  a  question  of  such  a  thing.  And  what  was 
there  in  life  worse  than  the  sad  misery,  the  hard  work, 
the  contempt  and  humiliation  that  had  been  Tommy's 
portion  in  it?  Yet,  he  had  borne  it  all  with  a  laugh. 
Who  had  ever  heard  him  complain  of  his  lot  or  of  his 
thin  undersized  body,  his  crippled  foot  ?  And  during  the 
war,  when  he  could  have  done  so  easily  what  others  had 
done,  made  a  position  and  fortune  for  himself  out  of  the 
loot  of  conquest;  when  his  patron  was  absent,  dead  for 
all  he  knew — what  had  he  done?  He  had  sat  in  the 
office  protecting  its  interests  and  studying  to  make  a 
lawyer  of  himself.  He  had  succeeded  too.  Where,  among 
all  the  ardent  gentlemen  fighting  in  the  State  for  their 
politics  and  their  bread,  was  there  a  better  one?  And 
if  there  was  a  book  left  in  the  office  to  sell  now,  if  there 
was  a  dollar  now  to  be  made  out  of  it  for  wife  or  child, 
to  whom  was  it  owing? 

If  all  this  passed  through  the  mind  of  her  who  stood 
behind  the  head  of  the  bed — hearing,  seeing  all,  pressing 
her  hands  upon  her  heart  to  keep  it  still — must  it  not 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  309 

have  passed  through  his  mind  also?  He,  who  was 
so  much  more  just,  so  much  more  sensitive  to  merit 
than  she  was,  so  much  more  piteous  of  struggling 
humanity ! 

Did  he  see  himself,  picking  up  the  boy  as  Jove  might 
have  picked  up  a  boor's  brat?  (For  no  Jove  could 
indeed  have  been  more  self-confident  than  he  was  at  that 
time.)  There  must  have  been  some  sudden  revival  of' 
the  forgotten  thrill  of  the  old,  intimate,  and  subtle  tie 
that  daily  companionship  weaves  between  man  and  boy; 
or  it  may  have  been  only  the  picture  of  the  office  con 
jured  up  so  vividly  before  him  by  Tommy's  words:  the 
office,  with  all  it  contained  of  his  past  and  all  that  he  had 
thought  it  contained  of  his  future,  as  he  saw  it  before 
him  at  that  time.  There  was  the  business  so  faithfully 
worked  for;  the  knowledge  so  patiently  acquired,  the 
foundations  of  fortune  and  reputation  so  conscientiously 
laid  to  last  forever !  Or  perhaps  it  was  the  bitter  waters 
of  defeat  that  overwhelmed  him :  the  surrender,  so  much 
worse  than  the  one  that  had  made  the  oldest  and  strongest 
soldiers  in  the  army  shed  tears.  For  he  was  alone  in 
this  humiliation;  all  by  himself  in  this  surrender;  and 
perhaps — worst  shame  and  humiliation  of  all — perhaps 
— he  was  to  die  in  this  second  defeat — perhaps,  not  be 
allowed  to  fight  his  way  out  of  it,  but  was  to  lie,  a  corpse 
in  a  graveyard  while  other  men  marched  to  the  redemp 
tion  of  their  land  and  of  themselves.  Or,  it  may  have 
been  only  mortal  weakness,  for  life  is  sweet  and  to  die 
is  a  sorrow  to  the  best  of  us.  But,  as  Tommy  was 
wiping  the  tears  from  his  eyes,  a  tear  forced  itself  from 
under  the  lid  of  the  eye  beneath  him  and  rolled  down  the 
long,  white  cheek. 


3io     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

Tommy,  awed,  slipped  away  into  silence  and  into  his 
place  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

Ah,  there  is  no  departure  in  life  that  cannot  be  better 
prepared  for  than  the  one  for  which  so  much  prepara 
tion  is  needed.  At  the  last,  when  there  is  so  much  to 
be  said  and  when  (as  we  think  about  it  in  health)  no 
words  are  quite  important  enough  for  the  saying  of  it, 
the  mind  is  too  drowsy  with  the  sleep  that  is  coming  on 
to  care  for  anything  but  that,  and  the  lips  hurry  over  the 
words  as  if  wanting  only  to  be  done  and  quit  with  them 
forever. 

The  sick  one  seemed  to  feel  all  this  and  he  strove  to 
keep  his  eyes  open  and  his  mind  awake  so  that  if  he  had 
to  depart,  he  might  not  do  so,  leaving  disorder  behind 
him. 

"  Mariana !  Mariana !  "  The  sweet  musical  name  fell 
from  his  stiff  dry  lips,  like  the  poetry  learned  in  his 
youth.  He  repeated  it  over  and  over  again,  as  if  it  were 
cooling  drops  to  his  parched  mouth. 

"Mariana!" 

Madame  Joachim  thought  that  the  fever  was  coming 
on  again  and  delirium  taking  possession  of  his  mind ;  but 
his  eyes  instead  of  closing  as  in  delirium  were  wide  gpen 
and  filled  with  meaning,  the  meaning  that  he  wanted  to 
put  in  his  incoherent  sentences. 

"  Mariana !" 

"Here  I  am;  here  I  am  beside  youl"  his  wife 
answered  in  her  pleasant  natural  voice;  almost  gay  it 
sounded  in  the  still,  little  room.  Had  the  fever  been  in 
reality  the  impersonation  that  the  doctor  and  Madame 
Joachim  liked  to  imagine,  what  would  he  have  thought 
of  that  voice  from  that  shadow  of  a  woman ! 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR 

"Mariana!" 

"  I  am  here." 

"Yes,  I  see  you,  I  hear  you.  Always  the  same; 
always  by  me  night  and  day  .  .  .  always  the  same  ..." 

Of  all  that  he  had  in  his  sleepy  mind  to  say,  that  he 
saw  so  clearly  must  be  said,  this  was  all  he  could  utter. 

"Mariana!" 

"  I  am  here,  close  to  you." 

"  Yes,  always  the  same,  day  and  night,  day  and  night." 

He  stopped  the  foolish  words  slipping  through  his  lips 
as  in  delirium.  He  opened  his  eyes  wide,  and  gave  a 
long,  a  longing  look  into  hers.  He  seemed  to  try  to 
brace  his  mind;  but  what  he  wanted  to  say  seemed  to 
wander  crookedly  before  him ;  he  followed  his  meaning, 
nevertheless,  forcing  himself  to  go  on,  word  by  word. 

"  Mariana,  my  wife,  when  I  had  to  leave  you  in  the 
city,  in  the  power  of  the  enemy,  I  told  you  to  come  out 
to  me,  on  the  plantation.  You  came,  I  knew  you  would, 
you  came  to  me.  When  I  had  to  leave  you  alone,  on  the 
plantation,  alone,  all  alone,  with  the  children — no  neigh 
bors,  no  friends, — alone  in  the  swamp — alone — I  was 
not  afraid — I  was  sure  of  you.  In  all  the  sickness — in 
all  the  danger,  I  was  not  afraid — I  was  sure  of  you. 
When  I  used  to  come  creeping  through  the  swamps, 
in  the  night — I  knew  I  would  find  you  there — always 
found  you  there,  awake,  sitting  up — waiting  for  me — 
awake,  waiting — ready  to  open  the  door,  for  me." 

The  perspiration  broke  out  on  his  white  forehead, 
moistening  his  hair;  but  he  forced  himself  on,  word  by 
;word. 

"  In  the  army,  before  a  battle — men  were  afraid  on 
account  of  their  wives  and  their  children — they  would 


312      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

nearly  go  crazy — thinking  what  would  happen  to  them 
afterward — I  was  not  afraid,  I  was  sure  of  my  wife. 
Mariana ! " 

"  I  am  here,  I  am  here  close  to  you." 

"  I  was  not  afraid,  I  was  sure  of  her,  sure  of  her/'  he 
repeated  triumphantly.  "  Always  brave,  always  cheer 
ful,  never  cast  down — never  discouraged — never  tired — 
I,  often — but  you  never,  never  you! — braver  than  I — 
better  than  I,  better  than  I — "  Like  slow  gathering  drops 
from  a  wound  the  words  grew  fainter,  more  sluggish. 
He  had  got  to  the  end. 

"  My  husband !  My  husband !  You,  not  I !  My  God ! 
It  was  you,  not  I !  " 

The  poor  woman  had  risen  from  her  knees;  pale, 
trembling,  at  last  at  the  end  of  her  strength  and  fortitude. 
She  wanted  to  scream  the  words  aloud.  She  thought  she 
was  screaming  them;  but  no!  She  did  not  disturb  his 
repose.  She  stood,  holding  on  to  the  post  of  the  bed 
to  keep  from  falling,  she  leaned  her  head  against  it, 
to  stop  the  whirling  in  it;  but  she  let  no  word,  no  sound, 
pass  her  lips. 

"Mariana!    ..." 

But  here  the  doctor  came  into  the  room,  noisily  as 
ever. 

"  Well,  my  friend,  and  how  are  you  ?  Better, 
eh?" 

Doctors  have  little  originality,  or  care  little  for  variety 
in  their  salutations.  This  one  had  been  used  day  after 
day,  week  after  week,  and  always  in  the  same  loud  voice, 
as  if  there  were  nothing  so  proper  for  a  fever  as  a 
loud,  unconcerned  voice.  But  he  always  roused  his 
patient. 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  313 

"  I  cannot  hold  out — "  the  breath  hardly  holding  out 
to  whisper  it.  "  I  have  to  give  up." 

"  Not  yet!  Not  yet,"  responded  the  doctor  cheerfully. 
"  You  must  not  give  up,  you  must  make  the  fever  give 
up,  eh?" 

He  made  a  sign  to  Madame  Joachim,  to  open  the 
window  near  the  bed  for  more  light. 

"  No  strength  ..."  the  words  barely  fluttered  from 
the  lips. 

"  You  think  you  are  badly  off,  eh?  "  asked  the  doctor. 
"  Well,  you  should  see  the  fever !  He  is  worse  off  than 
you,"  bending  close,  "  I  can  tell  you.  He  could  not  take 
another  case  now  if  I  gave  it  to  him.  But,"  laying  his 
finger  on  the  pulse,  and  turning  his  ear  upon  the  heart, 
"but  you  ..." 

"  My  God ! "  exclaimed  Madame  Joachim  to  herself, 
"  how  can  he  lie  so !  " 

The  wife  winced  in  pain  at  the  word  case. 

"  I  tell  you  what  to  do,"  he  said  to  Madame  Joachim, 
and  speaking  louder  still  so  there  could  be  no  doubt 
about  the  patient's  hearing.  (She  knew  that  maneuver 
of  his  so  well.)  "  You  go  to  Joachim,  and  you  tell  him 
to  give  you  a  bottle  of  his  good  Spanish  wine."  He 
described  the  bottle  to  her.  "  And  you  catch  your  oldest 
and  toughest  chicken — you  know  the  kind — for  soup, 
eh  ?  And  you  put  it  on.  We'll  show  that  fever ! " 
he  declared  as  if  he  had  merely  been  playing  with  it 
hitherto. 

Out  on  the  kitchen  gallery,  Papa  Pinseau  sat  through 
the  afternoon  putting  off  his  dinner  from  hour  to  hour; 
and  with  him  sat  the  other  old  gentleman,  the  Kentuckian, 
Polly's  friend.  As  Papa  Pinseau  had  encroached  upon 


3H     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

his  time,  so  he  encroached  upon  Papa  Pinseau's;  coming 
in  the  morning,  and  sitting  through  the  day.  He  too 
put  off  his  dinner ;  but  what  did  dinner  matter  to  an  old 
soldier  and  an  old  hunter?  And  all  day  on  the  kitchen 
step  sat  Jerry;  looking  toward  the  house,  rising  only  to 
separate  the  young  roosters  when  they  fought  too  noisily. 
On  the  front  gallery  steps  were  Tommy  Cook,  and 
the  two  boys,  and  Cribiche ;  all  of  them  waiting  for  what 
no  one  mentioned,  however  much  each  one  was  thinking 
of  it.  But  the  little  girls !  The  only  change  in  them  was 
that  they  ran  about  the  kitchen  more  excitedly  than  ever, 
answering  more  decidedly  than  ever  "  Papa's  better " 
to  any  inquiry  about  him,  as  they  had  answered  steadily 
from  the  first  day,  holding  their  heads  higher  than  ever 
as  they  felt  the  craven  spirit  of  uneasiness  gaining 
ground  about  them.  The  longer  the  fever  lasted,  the 
more  determined  were  they  not  to  give  in  to  it.  The 
old  gentlemen  on  the  gallery  must  have  seen  this  in  their 
pity. 

When  it  was  dark,  they  took  their  leave,  and  the  little 
girls  went  to  bed,  to  whisper  what  they  would  do  the 
next  day.  But  the  Kentuckian,  went  away  only  to  wait 
until  he  thought  it  was  safe  for  him  to  return  and  take 
his  place  on  the  gallery  again;  sitting  bolt  upright  in  his 
chair  throughout  the  night;  looking  up  at  the  stars,  like 
a  soldier  at  the  door  of  his  tent. 

The  doctor  remained  also,  instead  of  going  home  when 
his  day's  duties  were  over;  and  like  the  good  soldier  he 
too  was,  sat  on  watch  by  the  side  of  his  patient. 

Then  the  routine  of  so  many  long  nights  held  the 
house  as  usual ;  no  sound  but  the  clock  ticking  away  the 
hours;  no  motion  but  the  soft  easy  swaying  of  the  fan 


THE  FAITHFUL  WARRIOR  315 

over  the  bed;  now  and  then  a  drink  of  water  given;  at 
certain  intervals,  a  potion  of  medicine;  the  shade  taken 
from  the  light  and  put  back  again — no  one  speaking,  all 
watching — the  patient,  alone,  oblivious  and  uncon 
cerned. 


AT  THE  VILLA  BELLA 

ON  such  long  Summer  afternoons  the  young  San 
Antonio  ladies  were  at  their  happiest.  The  roses  in  their 
garden  were  not  fonder  of  warmth  and  brightness  than 
they;  nor  did  the  roses  make  a  richer  show  of  beauty 
and  color  than  they  nor  a  sweeter  dispensation  of  fra 
grance — when  the  time  came  for  them  to  emerge  from 
their  chambers,  in  their  thin,  trailing  white  organdie 
dresses;  all  ruffles  and  lace,  breathing  the  subtile  scent 
of  French  perfumes  around  them  (Madame  Doucelet 
herself  was  subtile  to  extreme  about  perfumes;  the  dis 
cretion  of  one  as  she  called  it — the  indiscretion  of 
another. ) 

Even  Madame  Doucelet,  who  strained  her  eyes  to 
discover  defects  in  the  young  ladies  in  order  that  she 
might  have  the  pleasure  of  something  to  correct,  even 
she,  could  find  no  fault  with  them,  externally.  As  she 
saw  it  only  original  flaws  remained;  the  mistakes  of 
their  Creator,  who,  Madame  Doucelet  was  forced  to  con 
fess — despite  her  carefully  acquired  piety — made  more 
failures  than  successes  in  the  production  of  perfect  female 
beauty.  The  hair,  the  complexion,  the  neck  and  the 
arms,  so  naively  exposed  under  the  thin  muslin;  the 
waist,  the  hands,  the  feet;  the  walking,  the  standing, 
the  sitting;  God  alone,  who  knew  the  truth,  would  have 
taken  them  for  the  daughters  of  Tony,  the  barkeeper, 
and  of  the  market-woman,  downstairs,  in  her  short 

316 


AT  THE  VILLA  BELLA  317 

colonnade  skirt  and  loose  sacque,  sorting  onions  and 
garlic. 

And,  never  did  the  demoiselles  San  Antonio  sing  so 
well,  so  near  the  complete  beauty  of  their  voices,  as  on 
these  long,  Summer  afternoons,  in  their  fine  thin  dresses, 
with  their  throats  bare  and  free,  looking  at  their  reflec 
tion  in  the  glass,  and  listening  to  their  notes,  soaring  as 
has  been  said  like  escaping  birds  through  the  open 
windows  into  the  soft,  fragrant  atmosphere  outside; 
to  listening  admirers  on  the  Levee. 

"  Love,  love,  always  love,"  Mademoiselle  Minii  would 
exclaim  to  herself,  wearied  of  the  everlasting  amorous 
refrain  of  the  words  and  timing  her  measure  to  the 
vocalization  above  her :  "  Love,  love,  always  love !  Mon 
Dieu,  how  monotonous !  " 

She  herself  was  not  at  her  best  on  these  warm  after 
noons.  The  perspiration  rolled  from  her  red  face,  and 
the  cadenzas,  runs,  arpeggios,  and  trills  grew  more  and 
more  slippery  under  her  moist  fingers.  The  toilettes  of 
expectation,  as  she  called  them,  suited  well  the  theme 
of  the  singing,  that  seemed  to  be  always  seeking,  seeking 
something,  until  the  something  was  found,  and  the 
doctor  came  into  the  room. 

Madame  Doucelet  must  have  noticed  it  too;  but  not 
philosophically  as  Mademoiselle  Mimi  did.  There  was 
no  philosophy  in  the  mind  of  Madame  Doucelet;  no 
theories,  no  generalizations,  no  reasoning,  no  deductions. 
They  were  not  necessary  to  such  an  expert  as  she.  What 
she  saw  she  saw  with  her  eyes  and  not  with  her  mind, 
as  Mademoiselle  Mimi  did;  and  she  had  good  eyes  for 
seeing  a  long  way  off.  From  the  beginning  of  her  official 
duties,  she  had  seen,  with  the  same  eyes  that  saw  a  car 


318      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

coming,  the  equivalent  of  what  was  now  before  her ;  saw 
it  clearly.  She  wondered,  how  long  it  would  be  before 
the  young  ladies  themselves  saw  it.  But,  as  she  kept 
telling  herself  in  private,  to  ease  her  restrained  feelings, 
they  were  stupid  in  the  extreme;  stupid  for  all  their 
beauty  and  singing. 

Mademoiselle  Mimi  knew  when  the  doctor  entered  the 
room,  for  she  felt  then  as  if  her  accompaniment  were 
the  reins  of  race  horses,  so  hard  did  the  fresh,  gushing, 
thrilling  voices  pull  against  it,  bounding  ahead  in  all 
the  grace  and  strength  of  youth  and  joyousness  through 
variations,  roulades,  trills,  as  if  they  were  nothing.  Each 
one  at  times  rising  on  her  toes  and  throwing  her  head 
back  so  that  the  pearly  notes  might  be  seen  throbbing  in 
the  pearly  throat ;  each  one  going  back  to  her  seat  after 
ward,  and  extending  foot  or  curving  arm  as  Madame 
Doucelet  had  prescribed ;  or  leaning  back  in  their  chairs, 
— the  accomplishment  that  Lisida  possessed  to  such  per 
fection  of  charm  that  her  soft  hair  would  always  seem 
to  be  almost  falling  from  the  tall  comb  to  curl  and  glisten 
on  the  bright  yellow  cushion  behind  her;  the  hair  that 
grew  so  prettily  around  face  and  neck. 

Past  forty,  neither  tall  nor  handsome,  and  with  a  face 
of  the  most  ordinary  type  (but  such  prosaic  indices  of 
personality  were  the  last  things  noticed  or  thought  of, 
in  the  emotion  that  the  doctor  knew  how  to  produce; 
the  emotion,  as  it  seemed  to  the  observant  Mademoiselle 
Mimi,  that  came  from  the  sensation  of  being  called  by 
something  unseen,  unknown;  and  of  following,  follow 
ing,  that  call  in  a  charm  of  mystery  and  glamor) — it  did 
not  need  even  the  presence  of  the  doctor  to  produce  this 
effect.  Long  before  he  made  his  appearance,  the  effect 


AT  THE  VILLA  BELLA  319 

began  to  be  felt.  Mademoiselle  Mimi  saw  it  approach 
ing,  with  the  hour,  with  the  minute;  with  the  sound  of 
the  step,  the  opening  of  the  door;  seeing  at  the  same 
time,  each  one  of  the  three  young  ladies  recede  as  it 
were,  further  and  further  back  into  herself ;  farther  and 
farther  and  farther  away  from  her  sisters;  away  from 
even  the  consciousness  of  their  presence — each  one 
separately  and  alone  in  her  own  way  to  follow  the  call 
that  each  one  thought  she  alone  heard;  following  it, 
out,  beyond — personality,  self,  into  forgetfulness  of 
them,  of  everything,  save  that  she  was  following  some 
thing  unseen ;  but  felt,  moving  ahead  of  her,  calling,  call 
ing,  so  that  one  could  not  help  following  when  once  she 
had  heard  it  and  begun  to  follow  it.  This  was  the  effect 
the  doctor  knew  how  to  produce  upon  the  young 
ladies. 

All  the  while,  he  would  be  walking  leisurely  up  the 
Levee  toward  the  Villa  Bella.  As  he  approached  it,  he 
would  look  at  the  fine  old  iron  fence  with  its  interlaced 
design  and  brick  pillars  holding  their  vases  of  century 
plants  on  high.  As  he  passed  up  the  broad  walk,  his  quick, 
shrewd,  black  eyes  glanced  at  the  handsome  old  garden, 
on  each  side,  with  its  parterres  and  fountains  and  palms ; 
and  at  the  white  statuettes  that  appeared  as  if  they  were 
fleeing  from  pursuit  into  the  dark  shadows  of  the  mag 
nolia  trees.  And  as  he  mounted  the  steps  of  the  balcony 
with  its  pedestals  and  vases  of  growing  plants,  and 
walked  over  the  black  and  white  marble  pavement,  his 
eyes  grew  ever  larger  and  softer  with  their  gratification 
at  so  much  that  they  liked  to  look  upon. 

He  did  not  stop  to  ring  the  bell ;  but  with  the  bonhomie 
natural  to  him  in  the  home  of  little  girls  he  had  known 


320      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

all  their  lives,  in  the  convent;  he  entered  without 
ceremony  among  them  as  their  old  doctor;  and  as  such 
was  familiar,  almost  paternal  with  them:  calling  them 
"  ma  jolie  brune,"  or  "  ma  gentille  blonde,"  or  tapping 
"ma  petite  Lisida,3'  on  the  cheek  as  he  used  to  do  to 
all  the  pretty  young  girls  at  the  convent ;  throwing  him 
self  into  one  of  the  great  low  satin  jauteuils,  leaning  his 
head  back  to  enjoy  the  music;  asking  for  the  "Air  de 
sommeil"  from  1'Africaine,  or  the  Jewel  Song  from 
Faust,  "Ah!  si3 1  me  voyait  ainsi,"  or  the  "Ah!  Dieu,  si 
j'etais  coquette "  from  the  Huguenots,  or  the  "  Rosine 
aria  "  from  the  "  Barbier"  that  Lisida  sang  so  deliciously, 
almost  like  Patti,  he  said, — or  any  other  compliment  that 
came  to  him ;  for  it  was  all  the  same  to  him  what  they 
sang.  Notwithstanding  her  educational  formula  for 
young  ladies,  one  might  as  well  suspect  Madame  Doucelet 
as  the  doctor  of  caring  for  music. 

Never  forgetting  herself  an  instant,  she  was  always  on 
the  alert  to  fetch  a  fan,  or  a  glas  of  sirop  and  water; 
open  or  close  a  window;  advance  a  footstool,  or  a 
pillow,  as  this  one  or  that  one  of  the  young  ladies  needed 
the  attention  to  accentuate  something  in  attitude  or  ex 
pression  that  Madame  Doucelet  thought  complimentary. 
It  must  indeed  have  been  a  pleasure  to  her  to  note  the 
efficiency  of  her  delicate  training  upon  the  doctor;  to 
note  it  as  she  did,  with  her  sharp  little  eyes  peering  from 
the  dim  veil  she  managed  at  certain  moments  to  throw 
over  them. 

The  eyes  of  the  doctor  too,  would  peep  out  from  under 
his  closed  lids,  now  at  the  foot,  now  at  the  arm,  now 
at  the  hair !  And  now,  as  if  at  last  he  could  not  resist 
the  temptation  any  longer,  he  would  rise  and  go  from  one 


AT  THE  VILLA  BELLA  321 

to  the  other,  Maria,  Antonia,  Lisida,  to  make  the  most 
insignificant  of  remarks  to  her — in  the  manner  of  a  man 
who  has  his  way  with  women. 

Mademoiselle  Mimi  played  not  more  skilfully  on  the 
piano  than  he  on  the  instrument  he  best  liked  to  practise 
on.  But  Mademoiselle  Mimi  knew  nothing  of  her  art  in 
comparison  with  what  he  knew  of  his.  No  one,  without 
turning  one's  back  on  her,  could  forget  Mademoiselle 
Mimi  in  her  music,  as  she  sat  at  the  piano;  but  no  one 
remembered  the  doctor  in  his  performance,  although  he 
was  before  one's  eyes. 

"  Love,  love,"  thought  Mademoiselle  Mimi  playing 
away.  "  Love,  always  love !  Do  they  never  get  tired 
of  singing  of  love?  "  and  while  meditating  thus  as  usual 
upon  music  and  love,  people  and  life,  she  thought  she 
heard — for  in  truth  she  did  not  listen  to  the  singing 
after  the  doctor  came  in,  no  fear  of  false  notes  or 
measures  then — she  thought  she  heard  something  like  an 
animal  crying ;  but  nobody  else  heard  it  and  she  went  on 
playing,  until  she  heard  the  sound  again :  something  like 
an  animal,  but  calling. 

"  It  is  poor  old  Aglone,"  she  said  to  herself.  "  He 
is  dead;  Mr.  Talbot  is  dead."  And  in  a  flash  she  saw  it 
all  before  her;  the  little  girls  with  her  father  in  the 
backyard;  the  end  of  life  in  the  front  room.  "  Aglone 
has  come  for  me ;  that  is  her  poor  old  voice,  calling  from 
the  back,  instead  of  ringing  the  bell  in  front,  which  she 
won't  do,  because  she  despises  the  rich  dagoes." 

By  this  time,  she  had  risen  from  the  piano,  seized  her 
gloves  and  portfolio,  and  was  hurrying  out  of  the  salon, 
making  a  sign  to  the  doctor,  who,  quick  as  she  at  an 
inference,  followed.  They  hurried  through  the  hall  and 


322      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

down  the  steps,  the  back  ones,  hearing  the  cries  still 
clearer. 

"  That  stupid  Aglone !  "  exclaimed  Mademoiselle  Mimi 
impatiently,  this  time  aloud.  The  doctor  who  had  no 
thought  of  this  kind  to  mislead  him  arrived  before  her 
at  the  truth.  He  pushed  by  her  and  ran  down  the  steps 
and  found  the  San  Antonio  woman  trying  to  give  an 
alarm;  to  call  assistance  to  her  husband  who  was  lying 
on  the  brick  pavement  of  the  basement. 

She  had  seen  him  leave  the  car  and  watched  him  as  he 
walked  across  the  open  pasture  land,  into  which  the 
evening  sun  was  slanting  its  rays;  still  as  hot  as  at 
midday.  But  when  had  Tony  ever  noticed  the  sun  or 
its  heat?  His  wife  saw  he  did  not  walk  straight  and 
that  he  staggered  every  now  and  then.  She  wondered 
at  it,  for  Tony,  whose  business  it  was  to  make  men  drunk, 
did  not  himself  drink.  He  was  too  good  a  barkeeper, 
as  we  have  seen,  for  that.  He  staggered  forward,  as  far 
as  the  brick  pavement,  and  there  fell  like  a  log  and  lay 
unconscious,  breathing  heavily. 

His  wife  was  rubbing  his  hands,  calling  to  him  and 
crying  aloud;  the  cries  of  an  animal,  more  than  of  a 
woman  who  has  given  birth  to  daughters  with  beautiful 
voices.  Her  daughters,  hearing  her  cries,  at  last,  ran 
frightened  into  one  of  the  corners  of  the  salon  and 
crouched  down,  shutting  their  eyes  and  stopping  their 
ears. 

Madame  Doucelet  hastened  downstairs,  and  after  one 
glance  at  the  prostrate  body  ran  for  the  priest. 

By  the  time  the  doctor  was  ready  to  go  to  his  fever 
patient,  the  priest  had  expedited  the  departing  soul,  the 
heavy  breathing  had  ceased,  and  Tony  lay  on  his  wife's 


AT  THE  VILLA  BELLA  323 

long  table  in  a  clean  blue  shirt  with  a  crucifix  on  his 
breast  and  candles  burning  at  his  head. 

Ah,  Death  that,  like  a  skeleton  with  finger  on  lip, 
had  been  moving  so  stealthily  around  the  cottage  of  the 
Americans,  put  on  a  different  aspect  when  he  visited  the 
Villa  Bella ! 

When  Tony  was  out  on  the  hot  Levee,  chaffering 
with  oystermen  about  his  September  supply,  Death  had 
him  then,  and  could  have  taken  him;' but  he  played  with 
him,  like  a  cat  with  a  mouse ;  letting  him  out  of  his  grasp 
to  catch  him  again.  When  Tony  took  the  car  to  go 
home,  and  sank  into  a  corner  seat;  drunken — as  the 
driver  and  the  passengers  thought  him — Death  was 
watching  him  all  the  time,  opening  and  shutting  his  hand 
over  him.  Death  let  him  reach  his  gate,  which  the 
driver  of  the  car  had  to  open  for  him  and  help  him  to 
get  through,  watched  him  staggering  toward  the  house, 
let  him  reach  the  threshold,  but  there  the  play  closed. 
Death  caught  him  and  this  time  held  him.  As  the  doctor 
and  the  priest  walked  away  together  from  the  Villa 
Bella,  the  doctor  began  gently  to  speak  of  the  San 
Antonios.  Pere  Phileas,  evidently,  never  imagined  be 
fore  who  and  what  they  were;  that  is,  what  great  wealth 
they  possessed  and  what  good  Catholics  they  were  and 
all  else  that  the  doctor  unfolded  about  them  with  the 
agile  hand  of  a  surgeon  at  the  operating  table — the 
probable  and  possible  consequences  to  St.  Medard  of  the 
union  of  this  great  wealth  with  the  great  faith. 

"  Tony,"  proceeded  the  doctor,  from  his  initial  base, 
"  made  money,  we  shall  not  ask  how ;  he  is  not  account 
able  to  us  now.  He  accumulated  a  fortune;  we  ask 
ourselves  wherefore — seeing  that  as  for  himself  and  his 


324      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

wife,  for  poor,  hard-working  people  they  were  born  and 
poor,  hard-working  people  they  lived." 

The  doctor  shook  his  head  reflectively  and  improvised 
(at  least  the  priest  thought  he  improvised)  further  along. 

"  He  made  money  and  he  stored  it  in  one  bank  and 
another,  and  in  that  safe  in  his  and  his  wife's  room ;  that 
safe  which  her  eyes  never  forgot,  not  for  a  moment  did 
she  lose  sight  of.  Of  course,  you  do  not  know  it,  but 
that  is  the  reason  that  she  never  left  the  house ;  never  left 
the  place  where  she  could  sit  and  watch  the  room  the 
safe  was  in.  She  is  sitting  by  her  husband's  body  now ; 
but  she  sits  so  as  to  keep  watch  on  that  safe.  In  banks 
and  in  that  safe  he  stored  it,"  the  doctor  reverted  to 
the  beginning  of  his  sentence,  for  he  was  as  neat  in  his 
oratory  as  in  his  bandaging.  "  More  in  the  safe  than 
in  the  banks,  for  good  reasons,  doubtless.  It  is  a  mis 
take  to  suppose  that  he  was  only  the  vulgar  common 
dago  he  appeared  to  be.  No,  he  was  what  we  call  a 
financier;  in  truth,  mon  Phe,  a  great  financier;  and  as 
a  priest  guards  the  mysteries  of  his  faith,  so  the  financier 
guards  the  mysteries  of  his  wealth.  All  wealth,  like  all 
religions,  has  its  mysteries,  its  inexplicable  .  .  .  But 
we.  see  now,  you  see  it  too,  mon  Pere " — the  doctor 
paused  significantly.  "  The  daughters  in  the  convent 
carefully  preserved  in  their  piety  and  innocence  ..." 
(but  the  doctor  did  not  dwell  upon  the  convent;  for  it 
has  always  been  notorious  in  St.  Medard  that  the  church 
and  the  convent  cast,  at  the  best,  only  cross-eyed  looks 
at  one  another)  ..."  storing  good  intentions  while 
their  father  stored  wealth.  And  now ;  just  as  they  reach 
the  perfection  of  their  piety,  and  the  full  bloom  of  their 
youth  and  sentiments — ah,  when  it  comes  to  sentiments, 


AT  THE  VILLA  BELLA  325 

it  is  only  the  young  who  are  bold  and  strong  and  daring. 
A  young  girl  can  put  the  strongest  man  to  shame  when 
it  comes  to  expressing  sentiments.  Yes,  the  young  dare 
anything  that  the  heart  bids,  they  do  not  know  what 
prudence,  what  caution  means  .  .  ." 

Pere  Phileas,  as  he  strained  his  mind  to  follow  intel 
ligently  so  many  flights  and  so  many  tracks  at  once,  could 
not  but  thank  God  in  his  heart,  that  while  he  was  attend 
ing  to  Tony's  soul,  and  only  to  that;  so  wise  and  sure  a 
ministrant  was  at  hand  to  think  of  what  seemed  in  truth 
of  so  much  more  importance — of  the  wealth  that  the  soul 
had  been  obliged  to  leave;  the  wealth,  which  the  doctor 
gave  him  to  infer  had  been  accumulated  in  a  mysterious 
way  for  the  eventual  profiting,  so  at  least  the  priest  con 
strued  it,  of  the  church  in  St.  Medard;  the  poor  little 
church  of  poor  little  St.  Medard  and  not  of  the  rich 
convent  of  the  rich  Ursulines  as  might  have  been  ex 
pected. 

"  What  they  need  now,  the  San  Antonios,"  the  doctor 
turned  in  the  path  and  faced  the  priest  impressively, 
"  what  they  need  now,  mon  Pere,  after  the  consolations 
of  the  church,  is  a  good  lawyer,  an  honest  one.  Think 
of  it,  money  in  banks  all  over  the  city, — and  that  safe 
full  of  securities,  bonds,  stocks,  banknotes,  who  knows? 
Gold  and  jewels,  too,  perhaps — and  that  old  woman — 
she  is  not  really  old,  she  and  Tony  were  both  younger 
than  people  thought — that  old  woman  who  cannot  read 
or  write,  who  never  talks,  who  hardly  knows  her 
daughters ;  while  they  do  not  know  her  at  all.  I  do  not 
know  if  there  is  a  will.  I  expect  not.  Such  people 
do  not  make  wills.  (The  doctor's  sentences  grew 
laconic  as  he  approached  the  nucleus  around  which  he 


326      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

had  been  revolving.)  If  there  is  no  will,  you  know  the 
public  administrator  will  put  his  hands  to  it!  and  you 
know  who  the  public  administrator  is !  A  negro !  And  if 
he  were  only  a  negro,  no  more  than  that !  But  in  addi 
tion  there  is  a  politician,  a  white  carpet-bagger,  behind 
the  negro ;  that  is  what  the  public  administrator  is ;  negro, 
carpet-bagger;  carpet-bagger,  negro;  that  is  what  our 
government  is  from  governor  down.  Negro  in  front; 
carpet-bagger  behind.  Carpet-bagger  in  front ;  negro  be 
hind.  Whew !  "  the  doctor  blew  out  his  breath  as  if  that 
was  what  he  feared  Tony's  fortune  would  amount  to  in 
the  hands  of  the  public  administrator. 

"  A  good  lawyer  could  arrange  it  all  ... " 

"  A  good  lawyer/'  continued  the  doctor.  "  A  good 
lawyer !  But  Madame  San  Antonio !  will  she  ever  think 
of  such  a  thing?  Never.  She  will  sit  watching  her 
safe;  selling  her  picayune  worth  of  milk;  and  onions 
.  .  .  and  .  .  .  Ah,  if  she  had  only  a  good  lawyer?  A 
lawyer  like  our  friend  over  there,"  he  nodded  toward  the 
sick  room. 

"  But,"  began  Pere  Phileas  again,  with  pardonable 
curiosity.  "But  ..." 

"  A  good  American  lawyer,  an  American  lawyer  could 
manage  it,  an  honest  one  with  a  reputation.  You  know 
he  has  a  great  reputation  uptown — our  friend  over  there 
— one  to  make  a  public  administrator  afraid."  The 
doctor,  too  astute  not  to  foresee  the  question  and 
evade  it,  paid  no  attention  to  the  attempted  inter 
ruption. 

"  She  must  be  protected — the  widow — in  her  rights, 
and  the  daughters  in  their  heritage,"  pursued  the  doctor, 
scratching  his  head  reflectively.  "  What  Tony  left  be- 


AT  THE  VILLA  BELLA  327 

longs  to  them — the  fortune  he  made  in  spite  of  the 
question  of  how  he  made  it.  Money,  mon  Pere,  as  you 
of  the  church  know,  is  like  running  water,  it  purifies  itself 
in  its  course." 

"  But,"  the  priest  eagerly  availed  himself  of  the  open 
ing  afforded  by  the  pause,  "  if  .  .  . " 

"  He  could  manage  it ;  he  could  save  that  fortune  and 
put  it  in  the  good  course,  as  we  may  say.  It  is  not  the 
good  course  the  public  administrator  will  put  it  in,  of 
that  we  may  be  sure.  And  our  friend,  here  .  .  . "  They 
were  close  to  the  gate;  he  thought  a  moment,  and  then 
went  on  briskly :  "  Another  lawyer,  even  one  with  a 
great  reputation,  might  do — but  there  is  always  danger 
with  lawyers !  Even  with  those  of  the  best  reputation  at 
the  bar."  (Which  showed  that  he  knew  lawyers  at  least 
as  well  as  lawyers  knew  doctors.)  "  They  have  a  way 
of  managing  a  rich  succession,  of  settling  them,  as  the 
kings  of  France  used  to  settle  an  inconvenient  personage, 
by  shutting  him  up  in  the  Bastille  and  keeping  him  there 
until  he  died.  Eh,  mon  Pere?  "  (He  gave  an  interroga 
tory  end  to  his  phrase  in  deference  to  Pere  Phileas's 
knowledge  of  the  kings  of  France.)  "The  lawyer,  he 
only  shuts  up  the  succession  in  court  until  he  eats  it  up 
with  his  costs,  and  his  fees,  and  a  little  borrowed  here, 
and  loaned  there,  at  ten,  twenty,  fifty  per  cent,  profit — 
not  to  the  estate,  oh,  no !  to  their  own  pocket.  .  .  .  Ah, 
mon  Pere,  you  know  this  world  and  you  know  the  other ; 
but  you  do  not  know  lawyers.  But,"  taking  the  priest's 
arm  genially,  "  there  are  good  lawyers  to  be  found  if  one 
takes  the  trouble  to  look  for  them.  St.  Medard  has  one 
here — one  would  say  he  has  brought  one  here — for  the 
purpose,  his  purpose — why  should  we  not  say  it?  .  .  . 


328     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  M^DARD 

and  a  good  lawyer  could  arrange  it  all  as  easily  as  you 
could  a  case  of  disquieted  conscience. 

Poor  Pere  Phileas!  What  case  of  conscience  had  he 
ever  arranged?  From  all  that  he  had  ever  seen  of  a 
conscience  disquieted  or  otherwise  among  his  flock,  he 
might  affirm  that  Gascons  were  born  without  them.  He 
could  frighten  them  with  hell ;  yes,  if  that  could  be  called 
arranging  cases  of  conscience. 

They  were  now  at  the  gate  of  the  cottage  and  at  the 
end  of  their  conversation.  "  When  you  are  praying  for 
Tony,  Father,  pray  to  St.  Medard  for  his  family,  that 
they  may  not  fall  into  the  hands  of  the  wrong 
lawyer.  .  .  .  Good-bye  then  to  their  money,  and,"  he 
reiterated,  "  their  pious  intentions." 

The  good  Pere  Phileas — who  was  docile  enough  in 
listening  to  advice  and  accepting  assistance  in  behalf  of 
his  parish,  and  who  was  not  one  to  shut  his  eyes  to  any 
light  held  out  to  him  whereby  the  affairs  of  St.  Medard 
might  be  bettered — was  not  so  simple;  however,  as  to  be 
put  off  any  longer  when  he  had  an  important  question 
to  ask;  one  all  the  more  important  since  he  saw  what 
great  results  the  answer  included.  Firmly,  therefore,  he 
opened  his  mouth  to  put  his  question  for  the  third  time. 
The  wily  doctor,  however,  again  eluded  him  for  the  third 
time,  by  anticipating  his  direct  words :  "  What  can  one 
say?  As  long  as  there  is  life,  well,  there  is  life  .  .  . 
a  fever?  "  he  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  It  kills  or  it  goes 
away,  there  is  no  other  alternative."  He  could  not 
hazard  anything  more  definite,  not  willing,  like  the  good 
doctor  he  was,  to  run  the  risk  of  having  his  judgment 
reversed  by  the  event.  "  Nevertheless,"  deftly  mingling 
his  science  with  piety :  "  we  doctors  must  always  hope, 


AT  THE  VILLA  BELLA  329 

mon  Pere,  as  you  good  priests  must  pray,  no  matter 
what  we  fear.  Our  hopes  are  our  prayers,  is  not  that 
so?" 

After  this,  he  entered  the  sick  room  as  has  been 
described,  himself  to  pass  the  night  on  watch. 

"  What  has  happened?  But  what  has  happened?" 
The  question  gathered  slowly  in  Madame  Joachim's 
mind  from  a  thousand  minute  sources;  imperceptible 
ones  to  any  mind  but  one  who  depends  on  observation  for 
knowledge.  "What  has  happened?"  she  repeated  con 
tinually  to  herself  during  the  night  as  she  watched  the 
doctor,  watching  his  patient.  She  could  not  have  ex 
plained,  to  herself,  the  reasons  that  formed  such  a  ques 
tion,  any  more  than  she  could  have  explained  the  reasons 
of  the  formation  of  the  clouds  that  passed  over  the  sky. 

But  why  should  she  bother  herself  with  explanations? 
She  did  not  need  them  as,  to  quote  her  own  words,  she 
knew  what  she  knew,  for  the  doctor  no  more  carried  a 
face  for  people  to  read,  than  the  sky,  one  for  people 
to  understand.  So,  as  the  night  went  on,  she  asked  her 
self,  whenever  she  looked  at  him,  not  "  Has  anything 
happened?"  but  "What  has  happened?"  Finally,  as 
one  tired  of  walking  in  a  dark  tunnel,  she  chose  her 
moment,  and  softly  leaving  the  room  on  her  fat  feet, 
she  went  to  Cribiche  on  the  gallery. 

"  My  son,"  she  whispered,  shaking  her  head  signifi 
cantly  :  "  Go  find  out  what  has  happened.  Something 
has  happened,  run  quick  and  bring  me  the  answer." 

The  longer  Cribiche  tarried  on  his  errand  the  better 
satisfied  she  was. 

When  he  returned  with  his  report,  she  took  him  to  the 
far  end  of  the  gallery.  He  was  breathless  with  running, 


330     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

and  beside  himself  with  amazement,  excitement,  and  ex 
ultation  at  what  he  had  discovered. 

"  Eh,  Madame  Joachim !  It  is  Tony !  But  it  is  Tony 
who  is  dead !  " 

He  closed  his  eyes  and  folded  his  hands  on  his  breast 
to  show  how  Tony  looked ;  as  he  told  of  the  crucifix,  the 
clean  shirt,  the  candles;  Madame  Tony  on  one  side, 
Madame  Doucelet  on  the  other,  praying.  He  had  seen 
it  all.  "  Dead !  He  is  dead !  Madame  Joachim !  Eh, 
but  St.  Medard  has  sense,"  winking  in  the  dark  at  her 
and  laughing.  "  St.  Medard  knows  what  he  is  about ! 
He  has  sense ;  he  jerked  Tony  up !  And  Tony  was  fooled ! 
Tony  was  fooled  this  time!"  He  laughed  and  jeered: 
"  Blow,  San  Antonio !  Blow !  Blow,  San  Antonio ! 
Blow,"  mimicking  the  prayer  of  the  Italian  luggermen  to 
their  patron  saint  when  their  luggers  are  becalmed. 

"  A  .  .  .  h  H  .  .  .  a!  "  was  all  that  Madame  Joachim 
answered.  When  she  went  back  to  the  sick  room,  she 
had  emerged  from  her  tunnel  and  was  in  the  clear  light 
of  day. 

"  Lisida,  Maria,  Antonia,  which  shall  it  be?  Maria, 
Antonia,  Lisida?  "  She  knew  now  what  the  doctor  was 
thinking  about,  what  had  made  her  sure  that  something 
had  happened. 

Madame  Doucelet  put  her  young  ladies  to  bed  and 
stayed  with  them  until  they  went  to  sleep  because  they 
were  afraid  to  be  left  alone.  They  did  not  keep  her  long, 
and  when  she  left  the  room,  she  left  it  until  the  time 
for  the  chapel  bell  of  the  convent  to  ring  in  the  morning. 
Convent  girls  know  how  to  sleep  soundly. 

Then,  Madame  Doucelet  went  downstairs  with  her 
prayer  beads.  She  could  pray  a  night  through  by  a 


AT  THE  VILLA  BELLA  33 1 

corpse,  as  easily  as  her  young  ladies  could  sleep  upstairs. 
Her  poverty  had  made  many  things  easy  to  her;  had 
taught  her  to  be  useful  to  others,  in  many  ways;  in 
superintending  funerals  and  mourning,  as  well  as  shop 
ping,  and  the  training  of  young  ladies.  And  now,  she 
could  pray  by  this  corpse  almost  happily,  animated  with 
the  perfect  faith  that  makes  prayer  a  satisfaction,  that 
sees  clearly  as  through  a  glass,  that  what  is  prayed  for 
is  sure  to  arrive.  Now,  she  could  look  ahead  as  far  as 
she  cared  to  the  point  where  she  expected  to  find — what 
she  never  for  a  moment  of  the  day  forgot;  what  she 
was  ever  seeking,  ever,  without  intermission,  no  matter 
what  she  appeared  to  be  doing;  what,  it  had  been  her 
vocation  to  seek,  as  she  would  have  phrased  it,  through 
her  long  life  of  poverty — money;  the  money  that  would 
free  her  henceforth  to  do  nothing  but  her  pleasure,  that 
is — live  undisturbed  by  word  or  torment  in  her  little 
room  in  St.  Anthony's  alley  (where  she  could  almost 
touch  the  Cathedral  from  her  window) — go  to  church 
and  pray.  There  was  nothing  now  ahead  of  her  to 
prevent  her  seeing  that  point  clearly ;  nothing  at  all.  The 
abject  wife  and  mother,  sitting  on  the  other  side  of  the 
corpse,  too  stupid  in  her  grief  and  bewilderment  even  to 
weep;  she  was  nothing  to  Madame  Doucelet,  no  obstacle 
in  the  way  of  anything  she  saw  ahead  of  her  or  the  young 
ladies.  The  young  ladies,  far  from  being  an  obstacle, 
were  to  be  her  means  to  the  end — the  goal  in  view. 

The  prayer  beads  ran  faster  and  faster  through  her 
fingers;  the  prayers,  faster  and  faster  through  her  lips, 
as  she  thought  of  all  that  was  ahead  of  her  and  the  young 
ladies — her  means  to  her  end.  The  doctor,  himself,  was 
not  more  absorbed  in  his  meditation  than  she  in  hers. 


THE   TURNING  OF   THE   ROAD 

WHEN  daylight  came  into  the  sick  room,  and  the  shaded 
lamp  was  extinguished,  and  the  windows  were  thrown 
wide  open,  the  patient  opened  his  eyes  and  followed  the 
doctor  going  the  rounds  of  his  inspection.  His  lips  were 
too  weak  to  speak,  but  not  his  eyes. 

"  Sonnez  clairons,  tambours  battez! "  The  loud  voice 
of  the  commander  called  his  officers  to  his  side.  "  What 
did  I  tell  you?  He  has  gone!  Our  enemy  has  gone! 
Ha!  We  held  out  too  long  for  him!  No,  he  will  not 
come  back !  His  ultimatum  was  *  You  go  or  I  go  ' !  and 
we  bluffed  him !  He  has  gone !  " 

How  prosaic  the  scene!  The  shabby  little  room  with 
its  cheap  furniture;  the  disordered  bed;  the  ugly  details 
of  illness ;  the  worn,  tired  wife ;  Madame  Joachim  in  her 
rumpled  blouse  volante;  the  doctor,  despite  his  good 
qualities  as  doctor,  so  loud  of  voice,  so  offensive  of 
manner;  the  children's  towzled  heads  peeping  through  the 
door;  all  so  commonplace.  But  no  stage  however 
heroic,  no  circumstances  however  resplendent,  no  per 
sonages  however  exalted,  no  language  ever  invented  by 
dramatist,  could  have  produced  a  moment  of  greater 
effect  than  the  one  in  the  little  room,  among  the  poor 
accessories  of  St.  Medard.  To  one  of  the  personages, 
Heaven  itself  could  not  have  opened  a  more  beautiful, 
radiant  vision  than  what  she  saw  then.  And  what  did 
she  see  ?  Only  an  ugly  little  dirt  road  of  a  future  opening 

332 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  ROAD  333 

out  again  before  her,  twisting  its  way  along,  with  all  its 
ruts  and  weeds,  its  ugliness  and  roughness ;  but  in  it  she, 
the  wife,  and  all  the  family,  trudging  along  hopefully 
after  their  head. 

"  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha ! "  laughed  the  doctor,  over  the  joke 
that  was  to  come.  "  The  fever  will  not  be  ready  for 
another  case  soon,  I  warrant  you,  but  you  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha !  " 

They  stood  around  the  bed,  sipping  the  cups  of  black 
coffee  that  old  Aglone  herself  brought  them.  She  had 
sat  up  all  night  too,  in  the  kitchen,  in  case  (that  respon 
sibility  of  the  cook  in  the  hour  of  danger)  they  needed 
black  coffee  during  the  night.  Were  the  doctor  the  be 
liever  he  wished  the  devout  to  take  him  for,  he  must 
have  believed  that  the  Lady  of  Lourdes,  or  St.  Medard, 
both  being  beholden  to  him,  had  placed  Tommy  Cook 
there  on  the  gallery,  in  the  early  morning  light,  for  their 
own  grateful  purposes. 

And  Tommy,  after  his  long  night  on  the  gallery,  look 
ing  at  the  brilliant  August  stars  above  him,  and  ponder 
ing  over  life  and  death  and  the  even  graver  question  of 
people  making  a  living ;  when  he  saw  the  rich  succession 
falling  down  so  close  to  his  patron's  hand,  like  a  planet 
as  it  were  out  of  the  clear  heavens;  he  might  have  be 
lieved  something  equally  as  probable,  could  he  have 
believed  in  anything  but  his  patron's  principles  and  his 
own  sharpness.  This  sharpness — as  he  decided  even 
while  the  doctor  was  speaking  to  him,  as  he  spoke  the 
evening  before  to  the  priest — the  sharpness  must  be 
called  into  service  at  once  (as  it  had  been  called  into 
service  to  save  the  library  during  the  war)  before  Tony's 
death  was  known  through  the  papers  to  a  whole  bar  of 
greedy  lawyers — a  rich  succession  makes  even  the  richest 


334     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

lawyer  greedy.  After  the  sharpness  had  secured  the  suc 
cession,  it  could  wait  until  the  principles  were  well  enough 
to  proceed  upon  it. 

A  good  succession!  That  was  a  prize  worth  captur 
ing  !  And  not  many  of  that  kind  sailed  the  sea  of  litiga 
tion.  Such  a  succession  as  Tony's  would  indeed  furnish 
a  living  to  any  lawyer,  for  any  number  of  years,  until, 
at  least — and  that  was  all  Tommy  cared  for — the  State 
was  restored  to  her  status  quo,  and  his  patron  to  his. 

The  name  of  Talbot  seemed  to  brighten  out  again  on 
the  office  sign  as  he  thought  of  it,  and  the  faces  of  the 
inquiring  lawyer  friends  grow  dim.  As  he  and  the  doctor 
walked  along  together,  the  doctor  seemed  to  be  treading 
on  air,  so  elated  was  he.  And  he  was  not  vague  as  when 
talking  to  the  priest,  but  as  man  to  man,  clear  and  to  the 
point.  No  lawyer  could  have  made  himself  clearer  as 
he  told  off  the  points  that  rose  before  his  mind:  the 
ignorant  widow  who  would  necessarily  be  always  in  tute 
lage  to  her  legal  adviser  whom  in  the  end  she  would 
follow  as  blindly  as  she  had  followed  Tony,  the 
daughters  as  ignorant  for  all  their  education  as  the 
mother,  completely  in  the  hands  of  an  unscrupulous 
sharper  (so  he  diagnosed  the  case  of  Madame  Doucelet) 
who  he  was  confident  had  already  planned  to  stir  up 
trouble,  very  likely  had  a  lawyer  already  engaged  for 
the  purpose — and  so  they  came  to  the  house  from  whose 
doorpost  a  long  black  crape  was  floating  in  the  breeze. 

In  the  presence  of  death,  what  an  intruder  Time 
seems  to  be  ?  Who  then  pays  any  regard  to  him  or  to  his 
paltry  trade  of  minutes?  He  is  treated,  indeed,  then, 
no  better  than  a  peddler,  singing  "  Rabais!  Rabais! " 
So  short  a  while  from  daylight !  And  yet,  Tommy  found 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  ROAD  335 

what  looked  like  mid-day  at  the  Villa  Bella.  Servants 
were  sweeping,  Madame  Doucelet  was  throwing  open 
the  windows  of  the  salon,  and  directing  the  pinning  of 
sheets  over  the  mirrors  and  the  pictures,  and  the  arrang 
ing  of  the  chairs.  She  surely  was  a  woman  of  inex 
haustible  enterprise  and  activity  in  funeral  emergencies. 
Tony,  she  had  decided,  must  be  brought  up  into  the 
handsome  drawing-room  that  he  had  entered  so  seldom 
in  life,  and  he  must  have  a  funeral  that  befitted,  not  his 
past  but  the  future  of  his  daughters;  and  no  one  knew 
better  than  Madame  Doucelet  what  that  future  required 
in  the  way  of  the  conventional.  Madame  Doucelet  had, 
herself,  bargained  with  the  undertaker  for  a  handsome 
coffin  with  silver  handles  and  silver  candelabra  to  stand 
around  it  holding  wax  candles.  Tony,  in  short,  was  to 
lie  like  some  rich  respectable  merchant  amid  the  pretty 
furniture,  ornaments,  laces,  and  frescoes,  that  the  old 
Spaniards  had  gathered  together  for  their  own  life  and 
death;  a  symbol  himself,  indeed,  among  symbols! 

When  the  young  ladies  heard  that  the  coffin  was  to 
be  brought  upstairs  and  put  there  just  over  the  hall  from 
their  chamber,  they  were  more  frightened  than  ever. 
They  wanted  to  run  out  of  the  house,  they  frantically 
pleaded  with  Madame  Doucelet  to  let  them  go  to  the 
convent  for  the  day,  or  just  for  the  funeral.  They 
caught  hold  of  her  dress  and  held  on  to  it  (strong  young 
women  as  they  were)  when  she  wanted  to  leave  them. 
Ah,  yes!  They  were  frightened  enough  then  to  forget 
even  their  looking-glasses.  When  Madame  Doucelet  did 
leave  them — for  she  was  going  over  her  opportunity  with 
a  microscope  as  it  were — they  buried  their  heads  in  their 
pillows  and  stopped  their  ears  to  keep  from  hearing  what 


336     THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  M&DARD 

was  going  on.  There  is  no  power  on  earth  that  would 
have  induced  them  to  look  out  of  the  windows  or  doors, 
so  afraid  they  were  of  seeing  the  coffin  brought  in. 

Madame  San  Antonio  was  still  in  her  same  place, 
sitting  by  her  husband,  almost  as  dead-looking  as  he; 
too  stunned  still  even  to  replace  the  flickering  candles  in 
the  sockets  of  the  candlesticks.  The  doctor,  himself,  did 
it  when  he  came  in.  But  she  was  not  so  stupid,  and 
ignorant,  as  she  seemed  to  be ;  as  the  clever  people  about 
her  thought  her  to  be.  She  had  lived  with  Tony  too  long 
to  be  that,  at  least  about  business.  She  had  been  saving 
and  holding  on  to  money  too  long  to  forget  it,  even 
now.  Indeed,  she  would  have  sold  five  cents  of  milk  or 
eggs  that  very  morning  if  any  one  had  come  to  buy. 

Tony  had  been  forced  to  learn  much  about  the  law 
and  therefore  was  not  inexperienced  in  lawyers.  How 
could  he  be?  The  law  being  to  the  barkeeper  what  the 
devil  is  to  the  righteous.  The  path  of  his  money-making 
had  been  little  more  than  one  long  dodging  of  it;  one 
continuous  flight  from  the  pursuing  jaws  ever  seeking 
to  devour  him.  Many  a  time— driven  to  bay  by  the  legal 
condottiere  sent  by  the  city  against  him — he  had  been 
forced  (though  all  unknowing  in  his  ignorance)  to  adopt 
the  distinguished  expedient  of  famous  illicit  money- 
getters  of  picturesque  past  ages :  to  subsidize  those  forces 
sent  against  him — the  lawyers.  He  found  that  he  could 
always  afford  to  pay  them  more  than  their  clients  could. 
Whatever  Tony  knew,  his  wife  knew,  silent  as  he  was. 
Wives  of  such  husbands  gain  their  knowledge,  as 
parasites  do  their  growth,  from  the  tree  they  live  on. 

Tommy  had  little  trouble  with  her.  He  felt  with  her 
none  of  the  embarrassment  that  intimidated  him  with  a 


THE  TURNING  OF  THE  ROAD  337 

lady;  lifted  by  long  inheritance  of  refinement,  far,  far 
above  his  standing  ground  in  human  nature.  He  could 
talk  to  her  as  he  could  have  talked  to  his  mother. 

The  priest?  The  doctor?  Could  St.  Medard  himself 
have  opened  the  old  woman's  safe  any  easier  than  he 
did?  Or  have  confided  more  trustfully  to  him  the 
handling  of  the  papers  whereby  the  precious  succession 
was  to  be  secured  from  the  hands  of  one  who  would 
not  put  it  in  the  good  way  ? 

It  has  been  explained  that  the  one  grief  of  the  bar 
keeper  and  his  wife  was  the  loss  of  a  son,  whose  life 
was  a  trellis  upon  which  they  were  training  their  affection 
and  ambition  to  climb,  and  how,  in  their  despair  at  his 
death,  they  let  their  affection  and  ambition  grovel  hence 
forward  on  the  ground ;  and  how  in  their  ignorance,  they 
could  never  understand  why  the  son  whom  they  loved, 
and  wanted,  should  be  taken  from  them;  and  how  the 
daughters  they  did  not  want  should  live.  One  cannot 
speak  surely  about  a  father ;  but  a  mother — even  though 
she  spend  her  life  groveling  on  the  earth  alongside  of  a 
husband — when  she  loses  a  son  that  she  loves  she  loses 
him  not  from  her  heart;  his  life  is  never  dissevered  from 
the  life  that  conceived  him.  From  year  to  year  she 
follows  his  growth,  from  birthday  to  birthday  counts  his 
age ;  and  her  best  dream  is  that  she  is  still  carrying  him 
in  her  arms,  suckling  him  at  her  breast.  And  when  in 
after  life  she  meets  one  of  the  age  the  son  might  be; 
who  talks  to  her  mayhap  in  the  voice  he  might  have  had ; 
who  takes  her  hand,  her  onion-smelling  hand,  as  he 
might  have  done;  in  her  loneliness,  with  only  three  fine 
daughters  upstairs  .  .  .  (But  all  this  is,  it  must  be,  con 
jectural)  ...  In  sober  truth,  all  that  can  be  said  by  one 


338      THE  PLEASANT  WAYS  OF  ST.  MEDARD 

who  knows  only  the  outside  of  a  woman's  or  a  mother's 
heart  is ;  that  as  easily  as  the  undertaker's  men  lifted  the 
corpse  and  laid  it  in  the  coffin,  so  was  the  corpse's  suc 
cession  lifted  by  Tommy  and  laid  where  no  other  lawyer 
but  his  patron  could  get  it ;  and  well  out  of  the  reach  of 
the  public  administrator. 

And  by  the  time  that  Tony's  hearse  had  accomplished 
its  slow  journey  to  the  Louisa  Street  Cemetery,  Tommy 
had  towed  his  prize  safely  to  the  office  and  anchored  it 
in  the  armoir  of  litigation.  And  Tony,  who  had  laid  up 
treasures  nowhere  but  on  earth,  entered  the  other  world 
as  great  a  pauper  as  he  had  entered  this  one. 

"And  now,"  said  Tommy  succinctly  to  himself,  as 
he  sat  in  the  office,  waiting  for  the  appearance  of  the  kind 
inquirers  of  his  patron's  health,  "  now,  the  country  is 
safe." 


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